The Science Of Seduction
by Akiko Keeper of Sheep
Summary: Herein lies an excerpt from the personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson. Herein also lie cowboys, the Russian Mob, a femur in the freezer, and flats-mate. Enjoy! Now with 75% more Mort!
1. Prologue

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Prologue

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**The Personal Blog Of Dr. John H. Watson**

**September 7, 2011**

**Case: The Science Of Seduction |**

John stared at the blinking cursor, contemplating very briefly whether or not he should change the title. He wasn't sure he should be posting this at all, but that thought was quickly discarded. He'd never been ashamed of his feelings for anyone in his life, and he didn't intend to start now.

Ah, feelings. They caused so much more trouble than one would think. Not six months ago, he'd been comfortably engaged in a normal, if somewhat bland relationship with a lovely woman. The Moriarty Incident had done plenty to change that, starting with the way John felt about Sherlock Holmes.

The man was nothing if not infuriating, John mused to himself - the cacophany of ear-bleeding violin playing still rang in his ears. Really, was it such an annoyance that he wanted Sherlock to pick up his own dry cleaning? It had been enough of a battle to get the man to understand that, no, he was not going to negotiate on the shopping, not unless Sherlock wanted to share other household duties as well.

Things had been somewhat less frustrating as of late. Lestrade had given them cold cases to work on (John pursed his lips at the thought of them), Mycroft had stopped sending them haring around Europe for no good reason, and things had calmed down at the surgery now that autumn had brought a stop to people trying to ride bikes down mountains and other such nonsense. Still, John found it impossible to relax entirely. It was like the eye of the hurricane, really, and he was waiting for the rest of the storm to hit.

The past six months had been a whirlwind of chaos. What did it say about his life when allowing himself to be nearly blown up was not the most traumatic thing that had happened to him? What did it say when the worst that had happened when he'd hit rock bottom was that he'd named Sherlock's skull?

Well, that he'd lost his mind entirely, obviously.

Sherlock had actually been something of a blessing, even as John admitted that he was pretty much the source of all the chaos. It wasn't so much the femur in the freezer or the disappearing milk (he'd been quite touched when he found out where it was going) or the potted datura. It was the constance. For all his intricate thought processes, Sherlock was wonderfully predictable once you worked out how he thought. Not what he thought, of course, because John was certain that was much more difficult and would probably scar him for life.

He'd stopped getting upset when Sherlock texted him at odd times, or set the kitchen on fire, or unthinkingly insulted elderly ladies in the park, because he understood. And even more comforting was the knowledge that Sherlock understood him, too. It had maybe taken a bit longer to come to this understanding than it might have, because Sherlock was an emotional cripple and John wasn't far behind him, but they'd gotten there. And if that tacit connection had only served to intensify John's own feelings towards his best friend, he could deal.

Smiling to himself, John began to type.

**Among the many facts Sherlock Holmes finds irrelevant are the size of a blue whale's genitalia, the colour of water, and which fruit is the genetic opposite of the orange. What I was fascinated to discover, however, was that there was a certain correlation between so-called 'irrelevence' and whether or not he could correctly provide said facts. I stumbled upon this amusing revelation some two months ago, when I made the mistake of introducing him to **_**Quite Interesting**_**. It stands out in my mind, not due solely to that revelation, but also because it was the beginning of a realization of a different sort...**

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - So, here it is, the beginning of something beautiful!

Well, no, it's the beginning of something confusing, messy, hilarious, and otherwise chaotic, but that's what love is, no?

Before reading this, take a peek at my one-shot, _A Plan Of Radical Action_, for more information about such subjects as milk, skulls, and hysteria. It's worth it. I hope. Well, it is if you want to understand some of the inside jokes that will crop up in later chapters.

Please review! It's my oxygen!

_Edit: I forgot to put in the song for this chapter. I know how much everyone cares about my fanfiction playlists._

_Song for this chapter: 'The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage' (Panic! At The Disco)_

_My bad._

Peace.

Akiko


	2. Epic Pouting Maneuver!

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter One: Epic Pouting Maneuver!

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**In retrospect, perhaps I should have known that forcing panel shows on Sherlock would be a terrible idea. He'd made it quite clear that there was very little room in his "hard-drive" for useless information. Still, as a little knowledge of astronomy would have been immensely useful not six months ago, I had thought that perhaps his feelings on the subject had changed a bit. God, was I ever wrong...|**

"Oh, come on! That's not even close to having a practical application!" Turning his cold, analytical gaze on his flatmate, Sherlock crossed his arms and glared. "Why would anyone watch this program, John? It's half an hour of positively useless rubbish."

Rolling his eyes, John crossed his arms as well. "And you said we could watch whatever I wanted, so you don't get to complain."

It never failed to amuse John just how child-like Sherlock could be, here, in the privacy of their own home. He could be childish, certainly, snarking at innocent bystanders and becoming sullen when he didn't get his way. It was only when he was surrounded by the safety of their flat's walls that the blockade came down and the almost vulnerable side of his brilliant friend emerged. It wasn't a recent development, either, although much had changed since The Moriarty Incident. John could still remember that very first case they'd worked together, the first time he'd gotten a glimpse at that endearingly...cute side of Sherlock.

_"Mrs. Hudson took my skull."_

Since then, he'd collected a delightful number of memories of his usually-prickly friend, sans prickles. Moments where Sherlock smiled fully, where he would duck his head and laugh quietly. Moments where he curled up on his side on the couch and stared into space, not realizing that he was rubbing the hem of his silk dressing gown between his fingers while he thought. Moments where he would text John from across the room, sometimes just a simple command (**Amuse me, John, I'm bored. SH**), sometimes a nonsense comment (**I have one word for you, John: transvestites. SH**), always exaspirating. The ones John liked best were the ones where Sherlock would pout, usually because he'd lost an argument, and would whine John's name pathetically...

"But _Joooooohn_."

...like that.

"Oh, hush, Sherlock," John said, not even bothering to hide his bemusement as his companion squirmed beside him on the couch, drawing his knees up so he could hide his face against them. "Look, they're starting the General Ignorance round, that's the best one."

Sherlock groaned pitifully, prompting John to relent.

"Fine," he said with a sigh, reaching for the remote. "What do you want to watch?"

Sherlock turned his head to the side, still resting against his knees, to regard the doctor with wide, hopeful eyes. "Can we watch _Silent Witness_," he said quietly, as though he were afraid that insisting would make John say 'no'.

He was very aware that Sherlock knew about John's tendency to allow compassion to overrule reason. He knew that if Sherlock really wanted to turn the show off, he would have picked up the remote and done it himself. He also knew that Sherlock detested _Silent Witness_, mostly because of the impracticality of it. The last time he'd watched it, he'd raved about how no proper DNA test took that short a time, and that if people weren't going to get their facts straight, why bother to make a show at all?

"Sure, we can watch it," John said, turning back to the television and pretending his stomach hadn't done an impressive flip at Sherlock's tiny, gleeful smile.

It wasn't as though it was a new feeling. He would have had to have been blind not to notice his friend's good looks, and coupled with a voice that sometimes dipped into a sinfully deep tone and eyes like nothing he'd ever seen before, it was no surprise that John was attracted to him.

Since The Moriarty Incident, John had noticed that attraction growing at a frightening rate. He would phase out an entire crime scene investigation, complete with Donavan's insults and Anderson's idiocy, only to jerk back to reality at the sound of his name and realize he'd spent fully twenty minutes wondering how it would feel to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Just the other day, they'd been jumped by four members of a drug-smuggling ring, and had only just managed to subdue their attackers, and all John could think was how very much he liked seeing Sherlock flushed and breathless, and how much he wanted to press his lips to the taller man's throat and taste his sweat and skin.

"John? Are you going to change the channel?"

Damn it! Stomping down on his traitorous thoughts, John swallowed and stared down at the remote control. He could feel Sherlock's analytic gaze on him as he fumbled with the buttons, before the consulting detective sighed in a very put-upon manner.

"Oh, fine, we'll watch this ridiculous program. It's almost over, isn't it?"

Pleasantly surprised at this unexpected compromise, John was tempted to not tell him the truth. Unfortunately, his honest nature surfaced yet again - lying to strangers was hard enough; lying to Sherlock was just impossible.

"Actually, it's a marathon. It'll be on until seven in the morning."

With a moan (d_on't think about it, don't think about him moaning, don't you dare!_), Sherlock flung his arms up and flopped over dramatically. Sadly, this resulted in his head resting in John's lap.

_He's trying to bloody kill me!_

"Seven in the morning! Who stays up to watch television for twelve hours? It's ludicrous, John! Ludicrous!" At which point he pouted up at John, his lower lip sticking out ever so slightly, his eyes wide and seeming to beg John to make the world make sense again.

God, he wanted to throw him down and-

Coughing, John smiled. "Don't worry, I won't make you stay up to watch it," he reassured Sherlock, whose pout only intensified. "I have the first three series on DVD; we can watch it whenever we want."

Said pout slipped into a comically horrified expression. "John," he wailed, grasping his shirt in one hand and waving the other at the television blindly, "it's pointless! It's hours of utterly useless tripe! Who cares whether or not a duck's quack echoes? No one! Because it's absolutely, totally, and completely pointless!"

"Fine," John said, prying Sherlock's fingers off his t-shirt. "Allow me to amend my statement: _I_ can watch it whenever _I_ want, provided you're out of earshot, okay?"

Narrowing his eyes at John, the younger man thought for a moment (undoubtedly questioning whether or not John meant it, or was just appeasing him for the time being), before he nodded, letting out a relieved breath, before turning on his side to scowl at Stephen Fry, who was explaining to Alan Davies that frogs were not mammals in a rather sharp tone. He even suffered through another episode, shouting abuse at the panellists and occasionally whacking John on the knee in his ire. Once or twice, John poked him in the back of his head when he got too violent, and told himself firmly that it wasn't just to let his fingers brush those soft, dark curls. He also pretended his heart didn't flutter oddly when Sherlock, tiring of being jabbed, grabbed John's hand and held it for a moment as he glowered up at him.

It was much later, ensconced in his warm bed, that John pondered if maybe it was more than just physical attraction. Too much caffeine, he told himself. It was no wonder his heart was beating oddly, with all the coffee he'd been drinking lately.

He fell asleep somewhat fitfully, his fingers tingling with the memory of being held in Sherlock's strong, yet strangely delicate grasp.

**I should have known then what was happening. Even now, I'm somewhat dismayed at the depth of my denial. Perhaps it was somewhat fortuitous, then, that we got a visitor the next day who would set events in motion that neither Sherlock nor I had anticipated...**

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Chapter One! Huzzah!

Yes, I realize that Sherlock seems very out of character. Then again, he had just been nearly blown up four months before, and who knows how that would affect a person?

Anyway, it's a bit short, just a sort of lead-in to the real action. I adore _QI_, and I can't wait for Series I to come out, even though I live in the US and can't watch it. For those of you who don't know what it is, it's an absolutely genius panel show wherein people are asked questions about how many moons the Earth has and why Henry the Eighth couldn't marry Lord Pembroke. It's really just chock-full of fascinating, ultimately useless information, and I think it's exactly the sort of show that Sherlock would despise. Then again, I can't see him watching a lot of television besides the news.

How are you liking it thus far? Leave a review and let me know!

Songs for this chapter: 'You're The Reason' (Victoria Justice) and 'I Want To Hold Your Hand' (TV Carpio).

Peace.

Akiko


	3. Teatime Of Death

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Two: Teatime Of Death

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**It was just past nine the next morning when everything started going to hell. Moreso than usual, anyway. I awoke to the sounds of dischordant violin playing and Mycroft trying his best to speak over the ruckus. Somehow, I knew that the rest of the day would not be much better...|**

John sighed, pulling his shoes on in a rush as Mycroft pointedly tapped his umbrella against the floor. "You could at least consider it, Sherlock. A woman is dead, doesn't that count for something?"

Raising one eyebrow, Sherlock dragged the bow across the strings, drawing out an unearthly wail. Even as he rolled his eyes at his flatmate's antics, John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"I'm not you, you know. I can go and poke around and ask questions, but you know I can't see things the way you do."

There was a hitch in the noise, and then a rush of even louder notes.

"Not to mention, you never know if the killer is really gone. I mean, don't they usually come back to the scene of the crime? Unobservant as I am, I probably wouldn't notice until the maniac was right on top of me," he added, feeling like the lowest of the low for trying to worry Sherlock. Not that he would worry, of course. Sherlock never worried about people, sociopaths don't worry.

Still, in his mind's eye, John could see the dismay, the despair that had been in Sherlock's eyes, the eerie blue glow of the pool making the detective's face look even sharper. That must have been it - he had only imagined that Sherlock had been worried, frightened for him. And...well, he hadn't imagined the frenzy with which Sherlock had torn the vest off of him, or the way he'd hurled it as hard as he could. He hadn't imagined Sherlock, witty, verbally gifted Sherlock, stuttering as he thanked John for offering to die to save his life.

He didn't blame the man for feeling a bit off-balance; he'd surprised himself with that move.

Sighing, John stood and snatched his jacket off the back of the recliner. "Fine," he grumbled, not even giving Sherlock the courtesy of a withering glare (partly because Sherlock seemed to find his glares amusing), "you want to be childish, you go ahead. I'm going to go do the right thing."

He didn't slam the door, because one of them had to be the grown-up, and surprise! The task had fallen to him. Again.

Mycroft bid John farewell as the doctor climbed into the familiar black sedan. He spent the short drive pretending Anthea (or whoever she really was) wasn't ignoring him. They managed to have a lovely conversation, even if half of it was in John's head, and before long, they were pulling up outside a large manor. As he stepped out of the vehicle, eyeing the vine-strewn brick exterior, John reviewed what he already knew.

The elder Holmes brother had explained that this was a case of the utmost secrecy - the victim, Wilma Redding, had been in a minor position in the Ministry of Defence, and there was a worry that she may have been killed by a double agent trying to protect his or her identity. For some reason, John wasn't sure he bought this. Whether it was all the time he spent with another Holmes who didn't always say what he meant, or just the way he attuned himself to people's emotions, but he knew there was something Mycroft was withholding. Something bigger than possible national crisis.

"While I commend your dedication to bettering your observational skills, John, I can assure you that the ivy didn't do it," said a sardonic voice from behind him.

John whirled around, heart thudding and face flushed. "Sherlock? Bloody hell, what have I said about sneaking up on me," he groused, clutching his chest.

Smirking, Sherlock tilted his head towards the front door. "If you're done staring around blankly, allow me to show you how it's done."

As he followed his companion into the house, John was alternately irritated at being belittled once again and relieved that Sherlock had donned his customary coat so John didn't have to worry about getting caught staring at his rear.

They moved through the entryway swiftly, bypassing several forbidding-looking men and women in dark suits. John swerved off towards the living room without needing to be asked, allowing Sherlock to observe the crime scene unimpeded while he questioned the family.

The first half of "the family" was Mr. Redding, who was wailing his deceased wife's name and refusing all offers of comfort. This did not deter the other half of "the family," who was Wilma's younger sister, Judith Aaron. The young woman was pretty, in a plain sort of way, of average build and...er...bust, and was dressed in jeans and a worn t-shirt. She was a sharp contrast to the ornate decor, expensive furniture, and distraught husband (half-nine and he was already dressed in a three-piece suit?). Looking torn between pity and anger, she was in the process of trying to wrap her arms around Mr. Redding, who batted her away weakly as he sobbed.

Feeling awkward for intruding on this display of emotions that he shouldn't be privy to, John cleared his throat. "Er, Ms. Aaron? Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

She seemed reluctant to leave her brother-in-law's side, but she followed him across the room to sit on the loveseat.

The usual questions came first: where were you, what time did you leave, what time did you return, did you notice anything unusual before you left? When you returned?

Then came the more difficult questions about Wilma's personal life. At least, they were difficult for John to ask. Judith seemed to have no trouble answering them.

"Oh, Will was always off partying. She was a drinker, sometimes she even used _drugs_, shameful behavior, and the men! She had at least four lovers at a time, juggled them like a pro. Don't get me wrong," she interrupted herself, as though she had just realized that she was speaking ill of her dead sister, "Will was a wonderful woman; very lively, curious about everything, smart as a whip. She had it easy growing up, I suppose a little too easy. Got used to getting everything she wanted, never thought about consequences."

"And you hated that about her, didn't you," Sherlock drawled from the doorway, prompting John to jump again. As soon as they got home, he would be tying a fucking bell around his neck.

Oh, lovely, and now he was thinking of Sherlock with a collar on. That one was going to stick with him for a _long_ time.

Trudging into the kitchen on Sherlock's heel, John frowned. Wilma's body was still where Mycroft had said it had been found - perched against the kitchen sink, slumped facedown in the now-cold dishwater.

"Is that even physically possible," John muttered, prompting Sherlock to send him a sidelong, withering gaze. "I mean," he amended hurriedly, "if she wasn't drowned by force, if she just fell unconscious, she would have crumpled, or fallen backwards, right?"

"Oh, very _good_, John," Sherlock said in a mock-perky tone. "Say something else distinctly unhelpful, why don't you?"

"You're a dick," John complied snidely.

"Obviously," Sherlock began loudly, pretending he hadn't heard John, "Mrs. Redding did not simply fall unconscious and accidentally drown in her dishwater. She was drugged, and positioned in the sink to make it look like an accident."

John's eyebrows shot upward. "And you figured that out...how?"

"Samoa, John!"

"Sorry?"

Flailing at a set of luggage tucked in the corner of the kitchen, Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. "Don't you see? The airport code - FTI. Fitiuta Airport in American Samoa. Wilma Redding's jealous younger sister comes back from Samoa just twenty-four hours before she's drugged unconscious and drowned in her sink? It's obvious!"

"Pretend it isn't," John replied calmly, leaning back against the breakfast nook and wondering why he wasn't more bothered by the presence of the dead woman. They certainly made an interesting tableau, anyway.

Sherlock groaned. "Oh, come on, John. Obviously, it was in the tea!"

"Sherlock..."

"Fine," the detective grunted, grasping John by the shoulders and forcing him into a chair. Then he rounded the table and sat across from him. "This morning, at precisely seven-thirty, Wilma Redding and Judith Aaron had a breakfast of toast and tea. Wilma was hungover, and not up to eating anything heavier, and Judith had just flown in from a different time zone, and was still a bit ill from the flight."

Jumping up, Sherlock ran to the stove and grabbed the teapot. "Judith, being the kind, sweet woman that she is, offered to make Wilma a nice hangover remedy. She boiled the water and prepared the cups. She got Lady Gray, but Wilma, Wilma got kava kava tea."

Sherlock grabbed the teacups, still sitting beside the sink, unwashed, and brought them to the table, plunking them down none-too-gently. John wondered if perhaps he should mention disturbing evidence, but he knew that at this point, Sherlock wouldn't hear a word he said.

"The cups, John, say it all. This cup," he said, sitting again and gesturing to the cup in front of him, "was definitely Judith's - it bears her lipstick, you see? And that one was Wilma's, though I suppose, if you wanted to be _certain_, you could check to see if she's wearing coral lipstick. The important thing, John, is that the tea that was in Wilma's cup was not only kava kava, but a much stronger dose than it should have been."

"And kava kava is-"

"-kava is a plant with distinctly sedative properties. A strong brew can knock a person out in as little as twenty minutes," Sherlock explained as though this were common knowledge. "More importantly, it produces a heavy, dreamless sleep from which it is difficult to rouse someone. Judith knew this, because she'd witnessed the use of kava to aid sleep when she was in Samoa. She also knew that it would exacerbate the effects of any other sedatives Wilma might have been taking."

Leaping up again, Sherlock whirled around and grabbed a bottle from the counter behind him. "Antihistamines, John, containing diphenhydramine. The combination of the kava kava overdose and the sedative properties of a first-generation antihistamine wouldn't have taken more than fifteen minutes to affect her."

Grabbing the cups again, Sherlock deposited them back beside the sink, moving to stand just behind the corpse of Mrs. Redding. He lifted the short sleeves of her blouse, pointing to the barely-there bruises.

"Lightly bruised, caused by fingers. Judith grabbed her by the shoulders, and here, at the hips," he added, lifting her blouse to display more of the same markings, "as she fell backwards, unconscious." He grabbed to corpse (John winced, hoping Mr. Redding wasn't about to peek in) and hauled her backwards, pretending to struggle under her weight. "She then manhandled her sister until she was positioned in the sink, effectively drowning her while she was sedated," he finished, levering the body forward until she splashed back into the sink. He looked to John, breathless and grinning. "Well?"

"Two questions," John said after a long moment.

"Yes?"

"One, how the hell do you know she drank kava kava tea?"

"The smell, of course." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John chose not to pursue the subject.

"Okay, two. Why?"

"Oh, come on, John," Sherlock snorted. "Who cares why she did it?" Glancing at a burly man who was leaning through the doorway, he simply said, "The sister."

As more people in suits entered, hauling a body bag and assorted industrial cleaners, John could hear Mr. Redding howling from the sitting room.

"You! You stupid bitch, you killed her!"

"I did it for you," he heard Judith screech. "She treated you like shit, sleeping around, drinking your money away! I did it for you! I wasn't going to let her get away with hurting you any more!"

"Shut up! Shut up! You're nothing to me, nothing!"

Sherlock grinned at John. "Well, there you go, John. Love - the most powerful motive for homicide there is." Patting John on the shoulder, he made his way out of the house after the mysterious suits who were dragging Judith Aaron away. "Hungry? I could murder a teriyaki."

Hurrying to catch up, John's brow furrowed. There was something niggling at him, something strangely uncomfortable, but damned if he could figure out what.

It was probably hunger. Teriyaki sounded pretty damned good just then.

**If I had been honest with myself, I would have realized that it was the way Sherlock had said the word 'love', as though it were some sort of rare, terminal illness. I had known that he considered himself to be above human emotions; all that mattered was the work, after all. Still, something about the entire situation nagged at me, telling me that it went deeper than a mere disdain for the murderess. In fact, it did, as I was soon to discover...**

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Chapter Two! Wahoo!

Ugh. Apparently, I rhyme at 2:30 in the morning.

So, yes, considering how little I delved into this particular murder, I spent way too much time researching. Four-and-a-half hours of trolling medication guides and online herbal encyclopedias and airline websites. Fun-fun.

In other news, I think John Watson's psychological profile fascinates me even more than Sherlock's. I'm not sure why - it's just utterly fascinating.

Review! It keeps me off the hooch.

Songs for this chapter: 'Livin' On A High Wire' (Adam Hicks - _Lemonade Mouth_) and 'Sweet Dreams' (Eurythmics).

Peace.

Akiko


	4. Jiminy Cricket

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Three: Jiminy Cricket

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**I shouldn't have revisited the subject, though when I look back, I realise that doing so set in motion the chain of events leading to my current situation. Still, if there had been some way other than arguing about the nature of human emotion with Sherlock Holmes, I would have gladly taken it. Arguing with Sherlock is like trying to nail jelly to a tree, even though I clearly had the upper-hand in this particular spat...|**

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, love is pointless. Do try to keep up, John."

"Yes, that's what I thought you said," John snapped, frowning. "I had thought I'd misheard, since it has to be the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard you say."

"Not ridiculous, John, logical. Love does more for good for homicide statistics than it does for people."

"You can't honestly think that!"

Sherlock snorted, gesturing smoothly with his chopsticks. "Obviously, I can, if I've just _told_ you that I do. What motives could I possibly have for lying about it?"

Rolling his eyes, John stabbed at his moo goo gai pan viciously. "I don't know, because you know it would bother me?"

His companion regarded him calmly over the dining table (he had whined when John had cleared away his experiments), contemplative as he toyed with the lo mein, absently rearranging it into a rough model of the human digestive system. He spoke again after long moment.

"Why are you always so determined to force me into whatever mold you think I, as a human being, should fit?"

"Oh, for God's sake-"

"I'm serious, John," Sherlock said, dropping his utensils and leaning forward onto his elbows. "You've known from the first what sort of person I am, just as I knew you. I have never sought to make you less emotionally...messy, so why do you persist in trying to make me messier?"

It was John's turn to stare, mind whirling through thoughts and memories, trying to figure out how to put something so intangible as his perception of Sherlock into words. Part of the problem was that he hadn't noticed himself doing so, but that was exactly what happened, wasn't it? Most of the time, John didn't think of Sherlock as unemotional, or removed, or sociopathic, or whatever descriptive an outsider might use. Most of the time, John thought of him as Sherlock, not a collection of individual traits, but a person. An exceptional person, true, but _normal_ in his abnormality. An equal, not in intellect, certainly, but as fellow denizens of the mortal coil. Neither of them were _normal_, were they?

As he thought further on the problem, he realized that it wasn't Sherlock's lack of empathy that bothered him. As a doctor, he had some working knowledge of psychological disorders, and he knew perfectly well that no matter what he said, Sherlock was not truly a sociopath (_fear, in his eyes, in his voice, in the shaking of his hands...smiling, just a bit, pleased to be accepted, to be understood...kindness, unexpected and unasked for, in fifty pound notes for the homeless and a kiss for a mother-figure_). Considering oneself above the tangled, often pointless affairs of humanity did not make one actually above it. Simply not wanting to feel didn't mean one never felt.

Certainly, the man had trouble making emotional connections. He could recognize emotions, but didn't fully understand them. In fact, John had been so fascinated by his flatmate's obvious differences from the world at large, he had done a little research into the subject, and had come to a tentative conclusion that he probably had Asperger syndrome, or a similar form of high-functioning autism. It would explain his lack of empathy, his social awkwardness, his habit of talking more to people he liked and ignoring those he didn't, even the obsessive way he focused on "the work".

The only reasoning for his behavior he could think of was that he was upset by the way Sherlock cut himself off. Whatever had happened in his life to make him believe he was completely incapable of connecting with people must have been terrible, but even worse was that all of John's anger and frustration and pleading could not make a dent in his colleague's armor. It was infuriating, filling John with despair. If Sherlock would not allow himself to connect to people, what reassurance did John have that he meant anything to the detective, anything at all?

No, that wasn't right. He did mean something to him. Sherlock referred to him as a friend, worried for him, laughed with him, _trusted_ him. That was something, wasn't it?

"Maybe," he said slowly, trying to get the words the right way around before he said them, "it's because I _do_ know you. And because I know that there's a big difference in not wanting anything to do with emotions, and not having anything to do with emotions."

Sherlock looked at him.

It wasn't a judging sort of look, or a dismissive look. It was closed, like he'd suddenly donned a Sherlock Mask, and John knew that whatever was going through his mind was something he didn't want John to be privy to.

_Hate it when he hides from me, hate it, hate it, hate it._

What was wrong with him lately? These sorts of thoughts just weren't normal, weren't _him_. It was almost as though he...

No. No. Just...there was no way. He couldn't have lost his mind that badly.

"Emotions are pointless, John. They do more harm than good, even to ordinary people."

"That's not true," he shouted, startling Sherlock and himself as he leapt to his feet, banging both knees against the edge of the table and scattering their egg rolls across the floor. Ignoring the throbbing of his kneecaps, John leaned over and slammed his hands onto the tabletop. "And you might actually believe that, Sherlock Holmes, but that doesn't mean you don't have emotions. I know you do. I know _you_. You can lie to everyone else, you can lie to yourself if it keeps you happy, but you can't lie to _me_. Not anymore. Ordinary people can learn from their mistakes, too, Sherlock."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock leaned back in his seat. "You're insinuating that I make mistakes, John."

"Even the gods make mistakes," John muttered, storming out of the kitchen and towards his room.

The next day, John got up to make tea, only to find they were out of milk. Sighing explosively through his nose, he made to grab his jacket, only to hear his phone chime at him from the pocket. A text. From Sherlock, no doubt, telling him to come quick or to pick something up from the Yard, or just giving him more information about transvestitism than he really wanted.

But no, it was a simple declarative statement, and all of John's ire and frustration melted.

**Picking up the milk. 20 minutes. SH**

It had taken ages to convince (translation - train) Sherlock to pick up the groceries without being forced. A sidelong glance at Mort made John grin. Odd as it seemed, he could definitely understand Sherlock's attachment to the skull. Maybe it was odd, or even morbid, but talking to Mort made John feel better. Sort of like he was a mutual friend, something to connect him to Sherlock.

"What do you think, Mort," John murmured, moving to lean back against the mantelpiece. "Am I going crazy?"

The laquered human skull on the mantlepiece didn't answer, but that was, perhaps, an answered in and of itself.

"It's not like I've never been attracted to a man before, but this is just...it's outrageous. I can't think straight with him around, and when he's gone, I just think about him! Do you know how often I think about Sarah when I'm not with her?"

Silence.

"Yeah, about that much." Sighing again, John rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I just don't know what to do about this, Mort. I'm in a relationship with an incredible girl, I have a steady job at the surgery, my life is getting back on track; why is it that all it takes is one word from him, and I'm rushing across London like an obedient dog, risking everything I've gained just to watch him poke corpses and annoy the police?"

The thought of Sherlock's last run-in with Sergeant Donavan brought a warm feeling to John's insides and a goofy grin to his lips. They had just arrived at the scene of a vicious double murder, a man and his mistress scattered about the room in bits. Sally had been her usual, prickly self, perhaps even a bit moreso than usual. She hadn't even opened her mouth to greet the consulting detective with her usual "freak" when Sherlock had smirked at her.

"You know, if you don't want to be kicked to the curb every time your lovers' wives come home, perhaps you should consider sleeping with single men."

As Sally had blustered at him, John couldn't help but snigger, prompting Sherlock to raise an eyebrow at him bemusedly. He liked it when he amused Sherlock, especially if he could make him laugh. Sherlock's laugh made him giddy and breathless and-

"Oh, God, I'm so fucked."

Mort looked on gleefully as John let his head fall into his hands.

_I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes_.

That was not something he was pleased to realize. In fact, it made him want to run screaming out of 221B Baker Street and never look back. In love with Sherlock? He might as well tear out his own heart and offer it to the man on a plate, for all the good it would do him.

It didn't matter whether or not he was capable of loving John, because he would never give in to or accept such emotions. They were useless to him, interfering with "the work" and rendering him utterly human. No, there would never be a place for John in Sherlock's life, not as a lover. It was surprising enough that he considered John his friend. Pushing him would only serve to force him away, and that was unacceptable.

"I have to put this behind me, Mort," he whispered, as though if he spoke too loudly, Sherlock would hear him all the way at Tesco's. "I have to put it out of my mind, forget about it. Go out with Sarah, love Sarah, and forget about these feelings.

"I can't lose him." Swallowing hard, he reached out and patted Mort on the top of his head. "You understand, right," he asked, chuckling shakily. Mort smiled back at him. "Of course you do."

When Sherlock returned from the shops, dumping the bags on the counter and leaving John to put the goods away, he noticed that his skull was turned away from the door, towards the other end of the mantlepiece. It wasn't the first time he'd found it askew, and he said as much to John, who shrugged and smiled tiredly.

"I did a little dusting."

If his genius flatmate noticed that the dust on the mantle was as thick as ever, if only disturbed by grasping fingers and the brush of a sweater, then for once, he didn't remark on it.

**It was the most despairing feeling in the world, the thought that I would have to live the rest of my life loving a man who would never notice. I should have known better, really. Hadn't I already learned by then that there was nothing that Sherlock didn't notice? Well, if I hadn't learned it before, I would, very shortly. This was because, two days later, Mycroft called again with an invitation. The plot, as plots were wont to do, was about to thicken...**

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Aaand, another chapter down.

Mort!

If you think this will be his only appearance, you don't know me very well. Mort is very swiftly becoming my favorite character to write. he's certainly the easiest.

I would like to point out here that I'm trying to keep spelling and slang in John's blog entries as British-English as possible...since he's British. You've probably already guessed that I'm about as American as it gets (an anglophile, sure, but definitely American), and therefore my attempts to keep John's writing British may not be entirely fruitful. If anyone notices any discrepencies, please let me know.

I should also point out that these chapters are posted before my beta goes through them. She reads them once they're posted, and I edit them after. I know, I should wait for her to edit before I post, but I get impatient. I have a system, and I don't like to alter it, which makes me incredibly irritating to beta for, I'm sure. Anyway, any typos or misspellings are my fault, entirely.

If anyone's wondering why I called this chapter 'Jiminy Cricket', it's because I can't shake this whole idea of John being the heart to Sherlock's brain - he's his conscience, in that way, just like Pinocchio.

Speaking of puppets, John/Sherlock fans (and I assume that all of my readers are John/Sherlock fans) should read 'Strings' by MrsSueKapranos. It's in my favorites, if you don't like searching, and it's worth it. She also wrote a short piece called 'His Colour' that is...wonderfully disturbing.

Review, please!

Songs for this chapter: 'Bite Hard' (Franz Ferdinand) and 'Freak the Freak Out' (Victoria Justice).

Peace.

Akiko


	5. Saddle Up!

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Four: Saddle Up!

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**If waking up to Mycroft engaged in a one-sided argument was bad, waking up to him sitting beside my bed with a cup of tea and a pair of invitations to a fancy dress party at his home was downright traumatic. Already feeling downtrodden, I was in no mood to look either Holmes brother in the face for the duration of a party, but I couldn't help but smile a bit at the thought of Sherlock dressed as Madonna. Maybe I really was going crazy...|**

"Oh, he's already refused to come," Mycroft said off John's soft expression. When John blinked at him, confused, the elder Holmes brother allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch into a smirk. "In fact, he refused to speak to me at all, and simply whacked me 'accidentally' with his bow as I passed."

John would not laugh at the sight of Mycroft doing air-quotes, he simply would not...

When the man left, his umbrella tapping against the steps as he saw himself out, John rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. He hadn't expected Sherlock to agree to go. He couldn't imagine his friend even going to a regular party, let alone one where he'd be required to dress up.

_Sherlock Holmes in costume? Ha._

By the time he'd managed to drag himself out of bed and into the shower (and he paused there for longer than he should have, having a brief interlude with the image of Sherlock dressed as a catboy), he'd decided that, regardless of what Sherlock did, John was going to the party.

It wasn't that he liked Mycroft, or parties, or dressing up in general. It was a statement. He wasn't attached to Sherlock at the bloody hip, after all. He could go where he damn well wanted, and if Sherlock wanted to stay home and pout, that was fine. It's not like John expected Sherlock to want to be beside him twenty-four/seven, and John certainly didn't want to stick by Sherlock all day, every day.

Except that he did.

Grumbling, John dug through the several boxes still left unpacked. They contained the sorts of things he would have put in the attic, if they'd had an attic. Items from his Army days (they were all in a sealed up box that he still wasn't ready to open), toys and books from his childhood that had sentimental value, old letters from friends and lovers. In one of them was a battered hat and a pair of boots he'd had since Bart's, left over from a particularly enjoyable graduation party.

Placing the cowboy hat on his head, John looked in the mirror and winked at himself.

It was easy enough to put together the costume - the hat and boots went nicely with a light blue button-down and his most worn pair of jeans. It was a good thing he had kept these, since Mycroft evidently had no trouble inviting people last minute. Digging further into the box, he unearthed his joke shop pistol, his grin turning a bit self-depricating. If only he'd known then that there would be a time that his sidearm would be almost an extention of his person.

Trudging downstairs, he spotted Sherlock, curled up on the couch facing the fireplace. He was staring into space, rubbing the hem of his dressing gown between his fingers as he did when he was thinking about something that bothered him. Sunlight stubbornly pierced through the curtains, seemingly making the recumbant man glow. His skin shone pearly white, his dark hair lightening to chocolate brown, his eyes seeming impossibly pale. How had John never noticed how incredibly beautiful Sherlock was? How had he not noticed how much he loved this adorably frustrating man?

When the detective glanced up, John tipped his hat exaggeratedly with a smirk. "Howdy."

Blinking, Sherlock's lips twitched. "You're actually going?"

"Of course I'm going," John said, crossing his arms. "I like to have fun once in a while, you know. Relax, get out of the house, socialize."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and refocused on the fireplace. "Have fun socializing with the insipid masses, John. I shall be here, enjoying the peace and quiet."

"You've never enjoyed peace and quiet in your life, and you know it," the doctor retorted, reaching for his jacket.

"Hmm."

As he shut the door, he couldn't help but feel a tiny bit disappointed. Really, what had he been hoping, that Sherlock would go, if only to please John? Like _that_ would ever happen.

No one gave him a second glance as he hailed a taxi, and if that was simply because they had deduced that he was going to a party by his appearance (most likely, because people weren't that thick, no matter what Sherlock believed), or because it was London, and people didn't give anyone a second glance here.

Mycroft's house was actually the old Holmes family residence. From what John had already figured out, the Holmes' were a well-to-do family; public schools, cotillions, summer homes, that sort of thing. He was therefore unsurprised to see the sprawling mansion, surrounded by a foreboding wall, looming up as the cab pulled up outside. He was equally unsurprised to see the burly security guard towering before him, demanding his invitation in a deep, gravelly voice.

As he handed it over, he tried a friendly smile. It was not returned.

_Right. So Mycroft doesn't employ genial people. I'm stunned._

The ballroom (of course they had a ballroom, John thought, feeling more than a bit off-kilter) was full of light and glittering crystal and hundreds of chattering voices. It was a stunning display, the swirls of color and sequins and smiles. As a passing employee dressed as a Viking offered him champagne, he thought that he might actually have fun.

"Howdy, Sherriff," said a cultured voice behind him. Turning, he smiled politely at Mycroft, decked out in his customary suit. It was starkly black, and the ever-present umbrella was gone, but beyond that small detail, it didn't look as though he'd bothered to dress up for his own party. "I'm James Bond, obviously," he said, smiling at John's confusion.

"Oh. Of course, how silly of me."

"I'm glad you came, doctor," the older man said, tipping his own glass of champagne in a vague toast. "I was rather hoping you could convince my brother to accompany you, but I suppose that was silly of me. Sherlock avoids parties the way most people avoid morgues."

He shouldn't have found that endearing, but he did. Covering his wide grin by sipping his own bubbly, John nodded to the gathering. "It's a shame, it's quite a party."

"Thank-you. Yes, we do try to make a big splash at this time of year here at the Holmes estate."

"Er, sorry? This time of year?" Blushing a bit, John felt distinctly left out. Was it some sort of holiday, and he'd forgotten? Or, worse, a birthday of a family member?  
>Mycroft noticed his discomfort and waved one hand airily. "We've always had a celebration of sorts in the summer. A sort of informal affair."<p>

John glanced at the crystal punch bowl and silver serving spoons and wondered what a formal event at the Holmes estate was like.

"We always save the more..._extravagant_ affairs for the colder months."

"And Sherlock never goes?"

Mycroft paused for a moment, regarding John over the rim of his glass as though judging him from the very core of his being outward. It was eerie, really, how both Holmes men could see so much more in a single glance than the average person could imagine. "You don't know much about how Sherlock grew up, do you, Dr. Watson?"

This seeming nonsequitur made John pause for a moment. On the one hand, prying into his flatmate's personal life when he quite obviously didn't want to talk about it would be incredibly hypocritical of him. On the other hand, there wasn't much in his past that Sherlock hadn't already pried out, even though John had never talked about it. Was it wrong to want to learn more about the man he loved?

John winced internally. It was still odd to think of being in love with Sherlock. Not wrong, just...odd.

"He was always bright, of course. I suppose a lot of his childhood is my responsibility. I had denied my parents so much, they turned to him to fulfill those duties. Mummy, especially, was so proud of him."

John stared at a couple dressed as Zorro and Wonder Woman whirl across the floor in an intricate waltz, wondering what Sherlock had looked like as a child. Dark curls, rosy cheeks, those same inquisitive eyes peering around at the world in wonder...

"Father was much stricter with Sherlock than with me. I was a fastidious child, very withdrawn, I suppose, and not really needing discipline. Sherlock, though, never really understood the concept of self-control. Father tended to be rather more...heavy-handed with Sherlock, especially if he disappointed him."

Watching the pair wander over to the punch, John tried to listen impartially, tamping down his outrage on Sherlock's behalf. It was years ago, he told himself, and therefore didn't matter.

"Everyone in the household was loyal to Father, of course. He paid their salaries, they would never betray him. Sherlock got used to being watched, being judged, being betrayed by everyone around him. He eschewed friends, never quite believing that they weren't working for Father somehow. Even if they hadn't been, Sherlock was quick to learn that there were always people out there who would try to get close to him simply because he was a Holmes."

All in the past, John told himself firmly. _Even if it wasn't, Sherlock wouldn't want you butting in, fighting his battles for him._

"My brother doesn't come to parties at his childhood home because of the memories, you see. He left this home and this life behind as soon as he could, shaking off our father's controlling chains and our mother's overbearing clinging and undoubtedly promising himself that he would never allow himself to be controlled again."

John thought of Sherlock's wild, pacing anger at Lestrade's manipulation, his cold fury when his brother checked up on him.

He thought, too, of the way Sherlock would do the shopping for them, of him following John to the crime scene even though he hated the idea of doing Mycroft a favor.

As the couple made their way back to the dance floor, John wondered where he'd gotten the idea that Sherlock did anything for his benefit. He wasn't that special...was he?

As if reading his mind, Mycroft leaned a bit closer, watching the same pair John was staring at. "Sherlock Holmes does not trust anyone, Dr. Watson. Anyone except you."

John's heart clenched. This was partly because the thought that Sherlock trusted him when he trusted no other gave him hope that he shouldn't indulge in, but did. But mostly, it was because as his eyes tracked Zorro and Wonder Woman across the floor, they stumbled over the disconcerting image of...

_Mort?_

But why would someone be holding Sherlock's skull? Unless...

John peered over at the man dressed in a doublet and tights. The hair was dirty blond and hung limply, the nose far too large, and there was a fine beard and moustache, trimmed close to the face, also blond. The skin was a familiar, pale tone, and the eyes...

The man dressed as Hamlet toasted John with the skull in his hand, and ever so slowly, winked at him.

_Sherlock?_

"Oh, very good, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, sounding quite pleased. "I wasn't expecting you to notice him for at least another half an hour."

Numbly, John set down his champagne and crossed the floor to stand before Sherlock. Sherlock, who was wearing tights. And a jerkin. And a puffy hat with a feather in.

And a false beard. A very good false beard.

"Er..."

"How eloquent, John. Aren't you happy to see me?"

John shook himself out of his stupor. "You came. In costume."

"Yes and yes. Really, such sound deductions. I must be rubbing off on you," he said in that low tone that made John's toes curl.

_Please, sir, can I have some more?_

"Why?"

At this, Sherlock's eyebrows soared. "What do you mean, why? I like to have fun once in a while, you know. Relax, get out of the house, socialize."

"Ha ha. Seriously, Sherlock, why are you here?"

Pausing, Sherlock glanced down at Mort. "I felt like testing my ability to blend into a crowd."

"Dressed as Hamlet."

"Were it not for the presence of my skull, you would not have noticed me," the detective huffed, stroking his beard absently. John chose not to mention that, had he locked gazes with Sherlock from the first, there would have been no doubt in his mind who it was.

"So you just decided to plop on a wig and...is that a false nose," John queried, curious despite himself. "And you thought that bringing Mort would be a good idea?"

"_Mort_," Sherlock snorted derisively, "completed my costume. I would not be recognized as Hamlet without poor Yorick's skull."

"And it has nothing at all to do with the chance to frighten passer-bys."

"Passers-by."

Bewildered, John frowned. "Sorry?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock gestured at the crowd with Mort. "The plural of passer-by is passers-by."

"That's just...odd."

"No, it's grammar," Sherlock said, sounding caught between irritation and amusement. "The 'by' is not plural, John, the 'passers' are, do you see?"

"Yes, I see. That doesn't stop me thinking it sounds ridiculous."

"Grammar often does."

Chuckling, John accepted another glass of champagne, taking one for Sherlock as well, who rolled his eyes again and took it somewhat reluctantly.

"If you don't want it, don't drink it. I can handle a couple glasses-ful of champagne."

Sherlock pursed his lips. John stifled another chuckle.

"I was pretty impressed, you know. Mycroft knows how to throw a party."

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured, turning his narrowed eyes towards his brother, who was busy chatting up a socialite dressed as a go-go dancer.

"The again, it'd be hard not to impress, what with the house being this grand. Nice ballroom. But then, I imagine most balls-room are this nice."

"You're doing that to annoy me, aren't you," Sherlock said, relenting enough to take a sip of his champagne as he reclined against a pillar.

John grinned at him. "I have no clue what you mean. I'm just complimenting our host on his taste. Although, I already knew he had impeccable taste; just look at his places-holder."

"John..."

What John thought was, _oh, don't growl like that, it makes me want to do naughty things to you, beard or no beard._

What he said was, "Don't get your cods-piece in a twist."

"Now I _know_ you're doing that to annoy me," Sherlock grumbled. "What sort of man would wear more than one codpiece?"

John giggled, waggling his eyebrows and wondering why the room was tilting oddly. "Take it as a compliment," he said lightly as he stumbled back to lean against the wall. He looked over to waggle his eyebrows again, but Sherlock had slid down the pillar and was now sitting on the floor.

_What a lovely idea. I think I shall sit, as well._

The last thing John saw as everything around him faded was Mort, now cradled in Sherlock's limp arms, smirking at him conspiratorially.

_Traitor..._

**Being drugged at Mycroft's party was distinctly unpleasant. If it weren't for my informative chat with the elder Holmes prior to my tranquillisation, I would have said it was an entirely hateful day. Even so, it was not at the top of my list of best days ever. What was worse, though, was the waking up...**

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Backstory FTW!

So now we know a bit more about Sherlock. Hooray! Virtual!Cookies to anyone who can guess where they wake up. Go on, guess.

Well, work will be taking over my life for the next few days, so I shouldn't expect an update until probably sometime on Wednesday. I wasn't expecting to get this chapter done so soon, though, so who knows?

Anyway, thanks to all who have reviewed thus far. I hope I'm living up to your expectations. Or down to your expectations. I have no idea what you expect from me. =3

I can has reviewz?

Songs for this chapter: 'Stuck' (Stacie Orrico) and 'Let's Be Friends' (Emily Osment).

Peace.

Akiko


	6. The Fast And The Curious

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Five: The Fast And The Curious

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**If I had to pick a song that fit my life, it would probably be something fast, unintelligible, and laced with profanity. Possibly by Metallica, or, at the very least, Green Day, although I can't think of a single Green Day song that doesn't make me want to punch the nearest person in the nose. Then again, my life frequently has the same effect on me.**

**That's what I get for waking up in Paris...|**

"This is _exactly_ why I don't drink," Sherlock snapped, craning his neck awkwardly to attempt to pin John with a furious glare. It would have been much more effective had they not been handcuffed to each other, back-to-back, in the most rickety chairs John had ever encountered.

"Mycroft drugs your champagne and kidnaps you often, then," he sighed wearily. Honestly, he should be more upset about his surprise relocation, but he'd run out of upset days ago, and gosh, he just hadn't had the time to pick up more.

Sherlock's inquisitive voice knocked him out of his internal snarking. "And how did you figure out that this was Mycroft's doing?"

John shrugged as best he could without dislocating something. "You mean besides the fact that we were drugged with his champagne at his house, attending his party that he randomly invited us to last minute? Just a guess. It wouldn't be the first time he's indulged in a little abduction of innocent bys-stander."

There was a long moment of silence during which John twisted his hands about to get a sense of what sort of bindings were...well, binding them. He peered around as he did so, the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling providing just enough light to see into the murkier corners.

The room was small, no more than eight foot by eight foot, with warped, wooden floors and walls that used to be blue. They were now crawling with molds that were most likely toxic, and the pervasive smell of rotting wood filled John's sinuses. There were no windows, and the door was to John's left, undoubtedly bolted and guarded.

Stupid Mycroft and his stupid fancy dress party.

It was then that John noticed that he was still dressed in his costume, hat and all, and judging by the faint tickle along his right ear, Sherlock still sported at least his plumed hat. The thought made John want to giggle, but chained to the most irritating being he would ever know and love in an undisclosed location for an undetermined reason was not the time for laughter. Besides which, Sherlock was annoyed enough as it was.

"You really are stubborn when you think you're right, which you aren't," his co-captive was huffing petulantly. "And you had the nerve to get angry at me for my alleged lack of knowledge on "primary school stuff"."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we maybe argue about pluralization after we've escaped from your government-puppet-master brother's plot to do whatever it is government-puppet-masters do to consulting detectives and their loyal, solar-system-savvy doctor associates?"

Sherlock made a valiant effort to glower at John through the back of his own head. "Will you get over the stupid solar system, already?"

He would have answered with something undoubtedly brilliant, had someone not chosen that moment to enter the room. It was a woman, petite, with the sort of curves that would have made John's mouth go dry, even if he was mad for the overgrown child he was handcuffed to. She was dressed comfortably, jeans and a baby tee, and John had the uncomfortable feeling that she dressed with ease of movement in mind. Dark hair was pulled into a knot at the base of her neck, and dark sunglasses shielded her eyes, even in the gloomy space.

She stood facing John, arms crossed and chin lifted, as the door slammed back into place. John heard the grind and thunk of a deadbolt sliding into place and sighed again. "Hello, ma'am. How can we help you?"

"Tais-toi, idiot," the woman growled, lips pressed together disapprovingly. "You are not to speak," she continued in English, "only listen."

Raising one eyebrow, John gestured for her to get on with it, fingers brushing Sherlock's and making the taller man flinch in surprise. He pointedly ignored the warm tingles travelling up his arm in favor of focusing on the woman in front of him.

_Observe_, his internal-Sherlock drawled. _All you have to do is _see_ when you look._

Which was easier said than done. He may have become more observant from his months as Sherlock's flatmate, but he was still lightyears away from the detective's skill and experience. Still, Sherlock couldn't see from where he was positioned, so he might as well be his eyes. At the very least, he could gather all the data he could to pass along to Sherlock once they escaped, see if it helped him figure anything out.

The woman was from the east of France, which John didn't need Sherlock's influence to deduce - he'd been stationed in France for several months, and had spent much of that time dallying with a woman who primarily spoke Franco-Provençal. This woman had the same accent, therefore she at least lived at the border of Switzerland, where that language was spoken.

He was very nearly distracted by the feeling of Sherlock's long fingers flickering over his wrists, skimming across his palms ever-so-lightly. Overcome with the inappropriate urge to hold Sherlock's hand, he swallowed thickly. He could picture those hands, so delicate and pale, the hands of an aristocrat. What a delicious contrast to his own hands, tanned and large; they would look so nice clasped together, fingers tangled carelessly as they walked to their crime scene, or ran from certain death, or curled up on the couch together to watch _Keeping Up Appearances_.

John fervently hoped his expression didn't betray his thoughts, because even if he didn't know this woman, the thought of her catching him mooning over Sherlock's hands was embarrassing.

_Focus, John_, his inner-Sherlock snapped.

Right, then. Mid-thirties, possibly early-forties if she looked after herself. Well-worn gloves, donned often for work. Clothing was well cared-for, not new, but in good repair. Shoes were functional trainers, rather than the impractical shoes women tended to wear. She probably carried a weapon habitually, but she had most likely left it behind before coming in. Smart captors didn't keep guards that needed weapons; weapons could be taken during a break-out.

She didn't balance her weight on both legs, or shift back and forth, but favored her left leg. It was slight, and if he hadn't dealt with a psychosomatic limp, he probably wouldn't have noticed it at all, but she had definitely been dealt some sort of injury to her right leg.

Judging by how much weight she was putting on it, it hadn't been to a joint - she had walked too evenly for that as she had entered. John ran through his mental list of patients with injuries to the leg. He bypassed diabetic conditions, as well as the more pedestrian injuries caused by illnesses - this person moved with far too much purpose and precision to do something as mundane as trip over a skateboard. Inflicted by someone else, then. Cringing internally, John turned his mind to his patients in Afghanistan.

_Keep it together, John. Don't let your mind be clouded by emotion now. Think clinically, analytically. You can break down later._

Careful to keep his breathing even and his expression blank, he thought back to those soldiers he'd patched together. Visions of severed limbs and charred flesh flitted across his mind's eye. Swallowing again, John tried to match the gait of his recovering patients with the way she'd moved as she entered the room. Broken bones in the foot, then. Useful, certainly, though only if Sherlock was doing what John thought he was. He hoped Sherlock was also listening to the woman, because he'd just tuned out everything she'd said.

"...and my boss will be in shortly to explain to you the nature of your presence here," she finished with the air of someone delivering a message who wanted to make it very clear that while they were too dignified for air-quotes, they were certainly implied.

"Well," Sherlock drawled, "while I would certainly love to meet this boss of yours, I think we'll take a rain check."

Suddenly he was holding John's hands and winding their fingers together and squeezing once, twice, and oh, God, his hands were strong, and warm, and fit in John's perfectly and wait, Sherlock didn't hold hands.

He realized then that the links of their handcuffs were clenched between their hands, the wrist-pieces dangling down. Oh, right. Escaping. _Don't get distracted, John,_ his inner-Sherlock hissed at him, much politer than the real Sherlock, who would have definitely added a "you idiot" to the end of that statement.

_Fight then flight_, he told himself, occupying the headspace he reserved for situations where he had to shoot first and ask questions later. He wasn't relishing the thought of beating up a woman, no matter that her boss had drugged and abducted them, but if it was a choice between her health and Sherlock's safety, well...that wasn't a choice at all, was it?

So, the instant Sherlock released his hands, John lunged forward and brought his heel down on the woman's foot, hooking his elbow around her throat as she grunted and hunched forward instinctively, preventing her from calling for backup. Turning in a smooth motion with his captive still in a headlock, he scowled at Sherlock. "Stop standing there like an utter twat and do something useful for a change," he snarled, ignoring the hands that grasped at his arm, getting weaker all the time.

Sherlock was picking up John's hat, which had tumbled from his head during the scuffle, and brushing it off thoughtfully. As the nails digging into his arm lost their purchase and the pretty, petite woman fell unconscious, John lowered her to the ground gently. As he stood back up, Sherlock placed the hat back on his head, tilting it over his eyes in a manner that would have been described as playful, had it not been Sherlock doing the tilting.

"Ready to...blow this popsicle stand, I believe the phrase is?"

John's eyebrows shot up as a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Don't try to be cultural, Sherlock," he said fondly as the detective shot him a withering glance. "It doesn't suit you."

"'Bys-stander'," Sherlock grumbled, moving to stand in the corner, just behind John, as the smaller man took up his position just behind the door.

"Are we doing The Opal Necklace, or The Daughter Of Berlin?"

"Opal," Sherlock said after a moment during which he was most likely rolling his eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, he slammed himself against the wall and did a credible impression of a woman howling in pain.

The deadbolt slid aside, and a burly man in a suit began to rush in, only to be slammed between the door and the doorjamb. He was out for the count before he could shout, but the noise Sherlock made had probably alerted everyone in a three-block-radius of their escape.

_No time to dally, then_, he thought, checking the man for a weapon even as he knew he wouldn't find one. Their abductor was smart. Then again, he had already known that, hadn't he?

"Your brother isn't going to speak to you at Christmas dinner this year, you know."

His lanky companion snorted, placing a hand at the small of his back to push him through the door. "I'm devastated," he intoned in that deep, rough tone that made John's knees want to give out. And if he took a private moment to enjoy the feel of Sherlock's hands on him yet again, who was to know?

Mycroft's cronies attempted to halt the duo's absconding, valiantly, but ultimately in vain. It was fairly easy, in fact, to get to the garage of what turned out to be a dilapidated townhome with appallingly retro decor, and yes, Sherlock had looked deliciously startled when John hotwired the blue Mini Cooper sitting there oh-so enticingly.

"I did used to be a teenager, you know," he said, bemused and pleased at getting one over on his genius friend. "Now get in so we can get the hell out."

Roaring backwards down the drive, John executed a perfect 180 into traffic and, tires squealing in a distinctly Hollywood manner, took off down the street.

"John!"

"Shut up, Sherlock, I'm trying to drive."

Several tense moments, during which Sherlock would shout things like "No, one-way street!" and "John, are you _trying_ to kill us?", and they had made their way to a little bed and breakfast in the heart of town.

"So," John said as he tossed his cowboy hat aside and flopped down on the floral bedspread. "Paris."

"Evidently."

Having expected something more about his statement of the obvious, John tilted his head to look at Sherlock. The man was standing near the window, just out of view of anyone who might be looking, peering out through the curtains with distant eyes. John could almost hear the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place.

"That woman, she wasn't from Paris," he said, not knowing if Sherlock would find it relevant or not. "She was from Franche-Comté. A security professional, maybe a bodyguard."

"Hm."

"So, what did she want?"

Sherlock jerked back to the present, glancing at John out of the corner of his eye. "Mycroft wants me to solve a locked-door murder at the Embassy," he said shortly, again neglecting to comment on John's inattention, or his attempts at making deductions. The wild ride they'd taken before must have shaken him more than John had thought.

He closed his eyes, basking in the adrenaline that coursed through his system. It had been years since he had driven like that, having given up the indiscretions of his teenage years when it became apparent that they would only serve to hold him back from achieving his medical degree. Who wanted a doctor who raced cars illegally on the side?

Still, it had been a nice feeling, that sense of complete control over his own fate, even as the world spun out of control around him. The danger, the rush, was as heady now as it had ever been, and John had to take a few deep breaths to keep from giggling drunkenly. Definitely an adrenaline junkie, John had thought several times that perhaps feeding his addiction wasn't the best way to go. It had led him to Afghanistan, after all, hadn't that taught him a lesson? But how could he stop when he was presented with so much temptation from all sides, usually in the form of a tall, lithe brunette genius with more issues than a newsstand?

"So, someone was murdered in a room locked from the inside, in the Embassy. Mycroft thinks it'll become an international incident?"

"Nothing becomes an international incident unless Mycroft wants it to," Sherlock spat darkly, moving to lie on the bed from the other side, his head just inches from John's. The doctor swallowed, staring at the ceiling, because he knew that if he looked at Sherlock now, while his heart was still racing and his mind in a fog of euphoria, he would kiss him, and that was the sort of danger he would have to do without.

"No," Sherlock was saying, his voice quiet and contemplative, "there's something else going on, something he's hiding from us, and I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of trying to find out what."

"You're going to leave a puzzle unsolved?"

"Hardly a puzzle," Sherlock snorted. "It was the Russian mob, obviously. The woman in the room gave us all the pieces we needed, just as Mycroft had planned. No, there's another reason he wants us lost in Paris, and I think the best way to repay him for what he's done is to get home before he can put whatever nefarious scheme his reptilian little brain has concocted into action."

John grinned. "Oh, I don't know. A vacation in Paris? Sounds like fun."

"Dull."

"Predictable, you mean?" Wriggling so he was lying on his side with his head propped in one hand, John poked Sherlock in the temple. "Of course it is. That's what makes it romantic."

_Wait, what?_

Before he could verbally backpedal, Sherlock rolled onto his own side, mimicking John's position. "And this has nothing to do with you feeling like returning to England would be retreating?"

Glad for the out, John smirked. "Of _course_ not, Sherlock. Why on Earth would I want to beat your brother at his own game to pay him back for kidnapping me _again_?"

"It doesn't really work," Sherlock pointed out, "if we don't know what his game _is_."

"Then I suggest you get to thinking," he shot back, sitting up before the temptation to pin Sherlock down and kiss him senseless became too much for him. "I'm going for something to eat."

In retrospect, leaving the inn while they were being hunted by a man who played chess with entire governments might not have been his best idea, because it wasn't ten minutes before he had to dive behind a dumpster overflowing with rotten cheese products, badly startling the homeless man he had nearly landed on, to escape the two thugs dressed as a member of the Paris Fire Brigade and a mime.

_This is Sherlock's fault,_ he thought, perhaps a bit unkindly. _I never had to worry about being chased by mimes before I met Sherlock._

The more pressing issue was the bullet wound in his right bicep. It had only been a graze, but it hurt like hell, and John had had more than enough of bullet wounds for one lifetime, thankyouverymuch. Even more disturbing was the fact that they were shooting at him at all. John had gotten the feeling that, though he had seemed quite disdainful of John at the start of their first meeting, Mycroft had grown to like, perhaps even admire him. He certainly never seemed to want John dead, so he could only conclude that the fireman and the mime were not on Mycroft's payroll.

Pushing aside the random, but inevitable mental image of Mycroft raising an army of mimes to fulfill his plans for world domination, John proceeded to ambush the fireman, using him as a human shield while simultaneously disarming him, taking the mime out with a single shot to the head.

That shouldn't have felt so good, but John had never been fond of mimes.

Casting an apologetic look towards the tramp, who was now cowering against the wall, John dug into his pocket for his wallet (at least Mycroft hadn't been that cruel) and pulled out several bills.

"Pardon," he mumbled, grinning bashfully.

One gun resting in his waistband at the small of his back, John held the other with the sort of ease that tended to make people back away slowly. He took as many alleys and back roads as he could, not wanting to attract the attention of the police. It was bad enough he'd just shot someone, the last thing he needed was to be caught with the gun that had been used to kill a man dressed as a civil servant.

"Not Mycroft's men, then," Sherlock said as he took in John's appearance.

John blinked at him, not in the least surprised. "Nope, mime," he said lightly, placing both guns on the counter in the bathroom and turning on the shower. Whatever he and that homeless man had been sitting in was rank, and he needed to get his wound disinfected as soon as possible.

As he stripped off his grimy clothing, John glanced at himself in the mirror and did a double-take.

The person staring back at him was not the John Watson he'd become accustomed to seeing. That John Watson wore jumpers and had warm smiles and drank tea. That John Watson spent his evenings watching the telly and reading the paper, and did nothing more exciting than prescribing antibiotics.

This John Watson was gritty, bloody, and his eyes were sharp and aware. He drank beer and spent his evenings running from gangsters and drove fast cars for the hell of it. This John Watson was supposed to have been buried under years of medical training and knitwear.

So which John Watson was he, really? Was he the gentle smile, or the hard grimace? Was he bandages and antiseptic, or guns and chokeholds? Blonde wife, two kids, and a house in the suburbs, or...

Turning away from his reflection resolutely, John told himself that he was being foolish. No one could really be two people, not unless they had a horrible mental illness. He could be both, couldn't he? The doctor, and the soldier? He could be whatever he damn well pleased.

The hot water did wonders for easing the tension from his frame, even as his wound protested terribly. Stepping out, he filled the tub with hot water, tossing his clothes in to soak for a bit. He'd probably end up wearing wet jeans, but at this point, he didn't really care.

He was sitting on the toilet, doing his best to examine his wound upside-down, when he sensed eyes on him.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway, a first aid kit grasped loosely in his hands. His eyes were trained on the blood that still seeped from the injury, a slight creasing of his brow the only thing that betrayed his concern. "Mime?"

"And a fireman. Only they were probably-"

"-Russian mob. Yes. They know Mycroft brought us here, they want us gone. So we agree on something," he muttered under his breath.

"You really are itching to get home, aren't you?"

Sighing explosively, Sherlock slammed the kit down on the counter. "No, John, I want to stay in fucking France so I can get you killed by Russian clowns!"

"Mimes."

"You-" Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously for a second, until he saw the slight smile playing about John's lips.

He was worried. It shouldn't have made John so deliriously happy, the knowledge that Sherlock was afraid for John's life. It was a horrible thing to feel really, and only the accompanying guilt gnawing at his stomach kept him from apologizing for being so pleased. He could feel his cheeks flushing with giddiness, and the tear in his bicep hurt less than it should have.

A rustle of cloth was his only warning before Sherlock was kneeling down in front of him, grasping his arm far more gently than John had thought possible and dabbing at the wound with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. The sting handily distracted him from the fact that this was _Sherlock_, kneeling in front of him, eyes focused completely on _him_ and nothing else. It didn't even register that he was still dressed like a Shakespearean production reject, because it was _Sherlock_ who was tending to him with the utmost care.

Suddenly, the rush of speeding dangerously through traffic seemed mild in comparison. Being with Sherlock, like this, a quiet moment where he knew without a doubt that he meant more to the man than he would ever admit out loud, was the most exilarating sensation he knew.

"Stupid, stupid, knew it was a bad idea to let you go out...fucking Mycroft...fucking Russians...could have been _killed_," Sherlock was muttering as he inspected the wound closely to make sure it was as clean as possible. He pressed a gauze pad to it, eyes flicking up to catch John's as the older man flinched. "Does it hurt?"

Had he not been trapped in Sherlock's gaze, and therefore incapable of forming a single rational thought, John would probably have said something snarky, like "why yes, Sherlock, the gaping wound in my arm _does_ smart a bit." Unfortunately, he was currently drowning in jewel tones of bluegraygreengold_god_, what color _were_ they? So instead, what came out was a breathy "no".

If Sherlock hadn't chosen that moment to tighten his grip, making John grunt as white-hot agony flashed up into his brain, he would have had Sherlock on his back with his tongue in the infuriating man's mouth. God, how many of these near misses would he stand before he spontaneously combusted?

Sherlock didn't meet his eyes again as he wrapped the bandages snugly around John's arm. He told himself that he imagined the tenderness with which his friend smoothed the fabric, fingertips barely brushing at the skin around the dressing. It was fine to fantasize about doing illicit things to his flatmate, but to imagine said flatmate would welcome that attention? No, best to leave those sorts of thoughts in the deepest recesses of his mind.

They lounged about a bit (John studiously making sure he was well-covered by the sheets), tossing ideas back and forth about what they should do. Rather, John tossed ideas at Sherlock, who shot them down with disparaging remarks and cold glares. Yes, any perceived gentleness on Sherlock's part must have been hallucinations brought on by exhaustion and pain. He needed to sleep, before he started thinking Sherlock wanted to raise a kid with him.

His last thought before he drifted off was that if they did have a kid, he'd be stuck with all the diapers.

It was probably no surprise, then, that when he jerked awake again, it was from an unsettling dream about a pregnant Sherlock strangling him with a baby blanket. He put a hand to his throat instinctively, before remembering that men don't get pregnant, and Sherlock was definitely a man.

"Done sleeping?" Sherlock was grabbing him by his uninjured arm and thrusting his damp jeans at him. "Put these on, quickly."

Rolling his eyes, John tread to the bathroom to dress. He wasn't thrilled about the idea of traipsing across France in wet boxers, but the thought of putting on wet jeans without boxers made him wince.

When he'd finished buttoning his shirt, he grabbed his attackers' handguns from beside the sink and tucked one into his waistband. He eyed his cowboy hat contemplatively, then looked at Sherlock. The man was now dressed in jeans of his own, far too tight to be legal, even in Franch, and a dark green button-down.

"Er...where'd you get the clothes," he asked, tugging on his boots as Sherlock laced up his own sneakers.

"Same place I got the first-aid kit," was the reply, the "obviously" left unspoken but understood.

"Ah, the owner. Gotcha."

Sherlock's eyes met him for the first time since their..._thing_ in the bathroom. They were crinkled at the corners, and John felt very warm, indeed, because he knew he'd just pleased Sherlock immensely.

They had abandoned the Mini a few blocks from the inn, and it was still there when the retraced their steps carefully, taking a few false turns to shake any possible tails. Once in the vehicle, John was back in his zone, navigating the Parisian traffic with ease while Sherlock tried to surreptitiously grasp the door handle in his nervousness.

"Relax," John said as he eased over a lane, just barely slotting between two cars, and then another lane, which happened to be full of oncoming traffic. Thundering over a median and into a parking lot, he glanced in the rearview mirror and frowned.

"Hmm. Being too conspicuous, I suppose," he mused. Changing gears, he reversed into the shopping center.

As the floor-to-ceiling windows shattered and shoppers screamed and scattered, John noted Sherlock's startled gasp with the same detachment he'd noticed the three black sedans on their tail. He did love surprising the usually-unflappable detective, but he would have to revel in the feeling later, because right now he was reversing through a crowded mall in a foreign country with the Russian mob right on their arses.

Something else to add to his mental If-I-Had-Never-Met-Sherlock-Holmes list. Unsurprisingly, it was long, and full of the sort of experiences that were only amusing long after the fact.

"Can you at least turn the bloody car around," Sherlock growled.

John chuckled. "Can't talk, driving. Oh, look, they have McDonald's in Paris, too."

"_John!_"

But then they were crashing out the other side of the mall, and John did turn the car around, taking them through an alley, over another median, and back onto the street. John risked flashing a satisfied smirk at Sherlock, who was even paler than normal and staring at him with wide, accusing eyes. "See? We're fine, and I think you were right - let's get the hell out of fucking France."

It took them another forty minutes to lose the mobsters, a long period of heart-pounding excitement that ended when the lead sedan collided with a police car that had chosen the wrong moment to roar out of its speed trap position. Stopping twice to change vehicles, once to take a cab, and again to steal yet another car, they made it to the airport without any further sign of the Russians or Mycroft.

It wasn't until they boarded the plane, just before they were instructed to shut off their mobile phones, that Sherlock's phone chimed.

**I trust you enjoyed your vacation; you may have found the five-star acommodations I had arranged for you more pleasant, but I'm certain you enjoyed yourselves nonetheless. MH**

Turning the screen so John could read the text, Sherlock scowled at the cabin crew member that tried to tell him to turn it off. He did so, leaning back against the headrest and pursing his lips.

John regarded him silently for a moment. His List had grown exponentially since The Moriarty Incident, and included such things as "I would never have had to pay to replace the microwave due to a jar of exploding eyeballs" and "I would never have ended up hiding underneath an adulterer's bed while he gave his young male lover what for". There were small things on the list, big things, inane things, significant things, all sorts of things that he would never have experienced had he never met Sherlock. Any normal person would have left ages ago, because really, any normal person could have lived without those experiences.

Not John.

So maybe he wasn't the normal one in this relationship. Maybe he was crazier than Sherlock, and he was just better at blending in. The fact was, both of the John Watsons he saw in the mirror loved every second of it.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad we're flats-mate."

"...shut up, John."

**All-in-all, I'd had better vacations, but considering the man who proceeded to spend the flight making quiet deductions about the other passengers and made me snort cola out of my nose three times, it was probably the calmest vacation I would ever have. What I didn't know, couldn't have known, was that Mycroft had something far more sinister in mind than a little mix-up with the Russian mob...**

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - Finally!

Okay, this chapter is much, much longer than it was originally supposed to be. I was tempted to split it into two parts, but I like it as it is, so you'll just have to deal. =)

I would like to state, for the record, that I have nothing against France, Russians, or shopping malls. I was truly upset at making a mobster disguise himself as a fireman, but I make no apologies for the mime. Mimes are almost as creepy as clowns.

Almost.

Anyway, that's about as much action as you're getting for now, although the rougher side of John may be making an appearance in the next chapter. Teehee. I do so love the idea of John having been this wild, crazy teenager with a serious adrenaline addiction, and the idea that he still has all of that bottled up inside, and as nice as he is, there's still a part of him that likes fast cars and loud music. =3 Maybe that's just in my fantasies.

Review, please! It makes me smile!

Songs for this chapter: 'Livin' On A High Wire' (Adam Hicks, _Lemonade Mouth_) and 'Finally Falling' (Victoria Justice).

Peace.

Akiko


	7. Why Is The Milk Gone?

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Six: Why Is The Milk Gone?

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**It was exactly one week from our return to 221B Baker Street that Detective Inspector Lestrade dropped by, hauling two boxes of files and twelve boxes of evidence into the flat, piling them up until the couch was hidden behind evidentiary battlements. He seemed amused by my (admittedly abridged) account of our vacation to France, which irritated Sherlock immensely. Still, I was glad to have the drama behind us. I should have known better...|**

Greg Lestrade was a decent guy. John knew he wanted to comment on the battered velvet hat that Mort was sporting, the long, slightly bent feather just brushing the clock. He probably also wanted to ask about the smiley face plaster on Mort's zygomatic bone. He definitely wanted more information on how they got from the B&B to the airport.

Fortunately, because he was such a decent guy (and probably because he understood the concept of plausible deniability quite well), he simply dumped the last box of files next to the couch and clapped John on the shoulder with a grin.

"Next time, try the Hotel de Vendôme. S'right by the Louvre," he explained off John's quizzical expression. "Nice view, posh rooms, and a marked lack of Russian mobsters." His grin turned mischievous. "Can't make promises about sneaky government employees."

John laughed because a week had gone by, so the whole ordeal seemed much further away and a little hazy. Even that moment in the bathroom, with Sherlock's hands on his skin and their eyes locked heatedly, felt somehow removed, like it was part of a space-time pocket that was out of phase with the rest of the universe.

Ever since they'd returned, Sherlock had been doing his best oyster impression - he had slammed his protective shell shut and only peeked out to steal John's favorite biscuits and to do whatever it was he did with the milk. John had stopped caring, provided he replaced whatever he used.

What John _did_ care about was that Sherlock was not talking to him. It wasn't an angry, I'm-giving-you-the-silent-treatment not-talking. It was a preoccupied not-talking, wherein Sherlock would curl up on the couch and promptly forget the rest of the universe. He could lie like that for days at a time, presumably only uncurling once John had gone to bed. He was tempted to pretend to go to bed, just to spy on his flatmate and make sure he really was eating something. Only the thought of getting caught made him think twice about it.

Even so, as he smiled at the sounds of Sherlock shuffling around behind the box fortress, John trudged into the kitchen to cobble together a meal that Sherlock wouldn't have to heat up after John turned in.

He knew it was dangerous, caring so much about a man like Sherlock. He also knew that he could spend all day, every day catering to the detective's whims, giving everything he had and getting nothing in return, and he would do so happily. It was a terrifying realization, the idea that so much of him, of who he was and who he had become, was Sherlock. God, how had he fallen so far, so hard, and not noticed sooner?

It was another week before Sherlock would speak to John, and it couldn't have been under more perfect, more inappropriate circumstances.

At that point, John was ready to break something, anything. He was confused by Sherlock's sudden urge to live inside his own brain. He had tried several times to start a conversation, and the most he got was a distracted "hmm?" There was a distinct lack of Jaffa Cakes in the flat, and the milk kept vanishing, whole gallons at a time, and John had to go and get it because Sherlock was so mired in his own thoughts that John was surprised he was able to dress himself. So when Lestrade had called, dragging Sherlock out of his own mind somewhat, John had hoped that it would be enough to get the man to respond to his questions again.

But no. Sherlock's incredible eyes remained unfocused, his face blank, and John was left having a very one-sided conversation with him in the cab on the way to the crime scene. To say that he was nearing the end of his rope would be a gross understatement. He was dangling at the end of his rope, slowly strangling to death while the hangman pointed and laughed and the crowd tittered amongst themselves.

When Sherlock neglected to comment on Sergeant Donavan's usual greeting of "Hello, Freak," John's face twisted into a scowl. Even more upsetting was that Donavan then turned to him and raised one eyebrow, as if to say 'I told you so.'

_Small-minded, plebian bastards,_ he thought coldly.

It was bewildering when, upon reaching the body, Sherlock greeted Lestrade with a sharp nod. He focused on the corpse, listening to the D.I. explain the circumstances, responding when asked a question, teasing poor Lestrade in that egotistical way of his. John looked on, pretending he didn't care that it was _Lestrade_ that Sherlock spoke his first words in two weeks to. He pretended it didn't bother him when he declared Sherlock's deductions "incredible" and Sherlock didn't so much as grunt in acknowledgement.

But when Sherlock straightened up from his examination and proceeded to walk away, his eyes passing over John as though he wasn't even there, it _hurt_. It was like being stabbed in the heart with a red-hot knife, leaving him breathless and nauseated. Sherlock was treating him like he'd treated Donavan, ignoring him as though he was _nothing_. It _hurt_.

_What did I do wrong,_ John thought vaguely, aware that people were milling about, trying to do their jobs around him, and not caring. He couldn't move yet, because if he did, he was sure his knees would give out. And Sherlock was still walking away briskly, not a care in the world, and why should he care? John was nothing to him, meant nothing to him.

Numbly, John turned, trying to take a breath as he stumbled in the same general direction that Sherlock had taken, as though the taller man had him on a leash that had pulled taut, dragging his lapdog along behind him. Suddenly, fury welled up inside him, righteous fury that blossomed out from the smoldering hole where his heart had been, roaring through his veins. His fingers tingled, his breath coming in sharp, harsh gasps. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and he knew the look on his face must have been terrible.

_No. I'm not that man. I have no one to blame but myself for this; I will not take this out on those around me._

It was a struggle, trying to draw that fire back into himself; it left frigid, icy cold in its path, which only made John feel sicker. He wasn't like the other people, the people who lashed out at Sherlock for being himself. He had known what he was risking, handing Sherlock so much control. He could not, would not, be angry at the detective for something that wasn't his fault.

Unfortunately, that was precisely the moment Anderson decided to open his big mouth.

"Christ, Holmes, you've pissed off your little girlfriend. Figures; it's about time he dumped you."

Both John and Sherlock froze, turning to face the sneering man in an eerily synchronized motion.

"But then, you had to know it'd happen sooner or later. Freaks like you don't have friends," Anderson spat.

It was two steps from John to Anderson, and he crossed it in a flash as the blaze of rage escaped his tight control, eating through him in a flash and focusing itself in his swinging fist.

When he next blinked, Anderson was sprawled out on the ground, blood gushing from his nose and his eyes staring up at John in shock.

Chest heaving, eyes glinting at the prone man coldly, John growled. "_Shut. Up._"

Then there was a hand at his elbow, tugging him away from the scene in quite a hurry as Lestrade shouted after them. The rushing had left his ears, replaced by an irritating ringing, and his knuckles throbbed, but it was better than the foul feeling of unstoppable violence building inside.

He felt empty now, as though everything he had inside had rushed out when he'd...God, he'd punched Anderson. He'd assaulted a member of law enforcement. He could be arrested. He could go to _prison_.

A giggle burst from his throat, followed by another, and another, until he was clutching his stomach and practically screaming with hysterical laughter. Through his tears, he could see a pair of black Converse sneakers shuffling awkwardly, and it only made him laugh harder. What was wrong with him?

"Sherlock," he wheezed, trying to stifle his laughter, and succeeding for the most part, save for the occasional snort of mirth, "what have you done to me?"

As he caught his breath, he glanced up to see Sherlock looking at him, truly looking at him, his expression just as unreadable as it had been for the past two weeks, save for a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth. John could almost see the thoughts flickering in Sherlock's gaze, shuttering in rapid succession like an exquisite strobe light.

Then he really smiled, and said "good shot," in such a soft, almost disbelieving voice that for a moment John wasn't sure he'd said it.

Suddenly, all the empty spaces in John were filled with warmth and relief and Sherlock, and the charred wound in his chest knit back together, and his heart began to beat again.

All he could say was, "It's good to see you again."

They didn't talk in the cab on the way home, but it wasn't empty silence. John nursed his bruised hand while he pretended Sherlock wasn't studying him in the reflection of the window. The atmosphere was comfortable, normal, and John hadn't realized just how tense he'd been for the last fortnight until it all started melting away.

About halfway through the ride back, Sherlock reached over and took John's tender hand in both of his. Long, pale fingers pressed against John's knuckles lightly, testing the bruises gently, as John stared at the curly head bent over in concentration. His heart was fluttering, and his mouth went dry when Sherlock's fingertips brushed his palm. He hoped fervently that his feelings didn't show on his face when Sherlock's eyes met his again, softer and warmer than he ever remembered them being.

"Shall I kiss it better?"

Blinking, John cleared his throat. "Er...what?"

"My mother always asked that. I confess, I'm certain that pressing one's lips to a wound is neither sanitary nor particularly anesthetic, but the gesture is supposedly effective amongst the general population."

"Ah." John tried to smile. "No, I think paracetamol and tea will suffice, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"Hm," his flatmate hummed, brushing a thumb over John's knuckles once more before retreating back to his side of the cab.

John spent the rest of the ride attempting to slow his heart rate and quash any nurse!Sherlock fantasies that tried to make themselves known.

Over the next couple days, Sherlock made a point of curling up on the couch with John to watch whatever program John chose, near enough that their knees sometimes touched, and the back of Sherlock's hand would occasionally brush John's thigh. He would sit next to John at the table when they ate together, elbows knocking as they stole morsels from each others' plates. Sometimes, when John was dusting or putting away dishes, Sherlock would make excuses to pass just too close, bump into him, press him up against a counter or wall for only a moment, but a glorious moment in John's mind.

Perhaps he was doing it to make up for the two weeks of silence. Perhaps he was simply experimenting. The first thought made John smile, while the second made him feel queasy. There was a third thought, though, that made his stomach clench in a way that had nothing to do with nausea.

Maybe, he thought secretly, not even daring to whisper it to Mort, maybe he _likes_ touching me.

Whatever his reasons, John was pleased with this new, tactile side of Sherlock, and he hoped it stuck around.

Several days after the tragic meeting of his fist and Anderson's nose, Lestrade called both Sherlock and John down to New Scotland Yard, and he sounded more stressed than usual.

_"He's not gonna let this go, Dr. Watson. You'd better come down."_

Amid frantic finger-tapping and panicked thoughts about soap-dropping, Sherlock reached out and placed a gloved hand at the back of John's neck, digging his fingers in slightly and kneading the tension away.

"Nothing is going to happen, John. I won't let them send you to prison. Who would I find to write such glowing reports of my 'going-ons'?"

John laughed in a slightly breathy manner, too much of his brain focused on the way Sherlock was stroking just under his ear to truly appreciate the joke. It wasn't until they were well inside the Yard, at the door to Lestrade's office, that John sent Sherlock a grin. "'Going-ons', really? Don't you know your grammar, Sherlock?"

Whatever the detective was going to say was drowned out by Anderson's angry, somewhat stuffy-sounding rant.

"-and completely unacceptable! He assaulted a law enforcement officer! I demand that he be brought up on charges!"

"Don't be a fool, Anderson. Not," Sherlock drawled as he swept into the room, coat fluttering behind him like a superhero's cape, "that you can really help it."

_My hero_, John thought, fighting down a giggle.

As though he'd read John's mind, Sherlock glanced back at him, eyes twinkling mischievously.

Anderson was standing beside the D.I.'s desk, arms crossed, much of his face obscured by the splint over his nose. Not, John felt privately, that this was a bad thing. He felt a certain sense of satisfaction at the sight of it.

Lestrade broke through Anderson's sputtering to ask the pair to sit. He sighed as they did so, shuffling a few official-looking papers distractedly before speaking. "I know you know why I called you, Dr. Watson. Anderson would like to press charges for assault, due to an alleged incident where you punched him in the nose in an unprovoked, violent manner on the night of August third-"

"Alleged!"

Lestrade raised one eyebrow. "Well, we do generally find people innocent until proven guilty, Anderson. And you have yet to produce any eyewitnesses-"

"You were _there_," the man spat, face going red as he slammed his fist on Lestrade's desk. To his credit, the D.I. neither flinched nor leaned back, simply raising his eyebrow further until Anderson backed up again.

"And, as I've told you repeatedly, I didn't see the incident. Therefore, I'm not an eyewitness."

Practically hissing in anger, Anderson bristled. "Morgan and DeWitt!"

"Photographing evidence."

"Jameson!"

"Talking to the victim's brother-in-law-"

"He's the culprit," Sherlock butted in, his eyes focused on Lestrade. There was a tell-tale crinkling of his brow that told John that he was confused.

John was anything but. He was watching Lestrade, overwhelmed with gratitude. The man was lying, had to be. And it was more than that, because there had to have been fifteen, perhaps twenty people at the crime scene, and as Anderson listed them, Lestrade confirmed that all of them had been doing anything but watching John break the insufferable forensics expert's nose. It wasn't the sort of loyalty he'd been expecting, but it was warming, nonetheless.

"Donavan! Sally was there, she was right behind me!"

A cold knot formed in the pit of John's stomach. Sally Donavan. She would never lie for John, not when he so pointedly disagreed with her on everything to do with Sherlock. Surely, surely...

"She was flagging footprints at the time. Anderson, I've already questioned everyone who was there, I did it as soon as you filed the complaint. You know that, I documented it all, you've read it all. There were no witnesses, Anderson."

"_This is outrageous!_"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said coolly, not even dignifying Anderson with a withering glare, "this would be a good time to remind everyone that without any credible witnesses, any trial will surely end with all charges being dismissed."

Lestrade shrugged, tapping his pen absentmindedly. "I explained all of this to Anderson, but he's insistent that we go ahead with the charges."

Sherlock's face twisted into a scowl, only for a second, but it was enough to make Anderson put a chair between them.

John cleared his throat. "I would like to take this opportunity to protest my innocence."

Three pairs of eyes fixed on him, identically incredulous expressions on their faces. If he needed any evidence that Lestrade knew perfectly well that he'd assaulted Anderson, that would have been it. Both he and Sherlock knew perfectly that John Watson was a terrible liar. Anderson seemed to know it as well, because he was starting to look triumphant.

_Best to nip that in the bud._

"Go ahead, then, doctor," Lestrade said, tossing his pen down, no doubt thinking that John was about to throw away all the work he'd done to get him out of this.

Clearing his throat, John shrugged. "Well, all I can really say is that, on the night of August the third, I did not, in any way imaginable, attack Anderson in an unprovoked manner."

There was a brief silence.

"No," Sherlock said suddenly, smiling his Pan-Am smile, reserved specially for instances where he was getting under the skin of terribly dull people. "Of course you didn't, John. No doctor with your principles would ever attack someone for no reason."

Anderson scowled, opening his mouth before realization dawned. He snapped his mouth shut, brow furrowing as he tried to work out some way to get John in trouble without admitting to intentionally provoking him.

_Get out of _that_, you smarmy bastard_, John thought.

Another long silence ensued, before Anderson threw his hands up. "Fine! Fine! If you want to just pretend that you haven't got two violent psychopaths running around unchecked, apparently with the full support of the law, that's fine! But don't think this is over," he snarled, slamming the door behind him as he left.

Lestrade smiled fully, his shoulders relaxing. "Well, that was fun."

After a brief lecture on what would happen should John attack someone in the future - not that he ever would, of course, but just in case - Lestrade waved them off, picking up the phone to obtain a warrant for the brother-in-law. As they made their way from the station, they bumped into Sally Donavan, who spat a half-hearted "freak" at Sherlock and nodded briefly at John.

Once they were ensconced in the cab, John let out a relieved breath, bumping shoulders with Sherlock. "Thanks for the backup."

"What are partners for?"

Smiling hard enough to hurt, John laughed. They spent most of the cab ride in comfortable silence, occasionally broken by John giggling over Anderson's splint, or Sherlock deducting that Sally's defense of John was because she genuinely liked him - the fact that Anderson's wife had come home again recently had just been the clincher.

They were just hanging up their coats when Sarah called.

Guilt gnawed at John as he chatted lightly with his girlfriend. She was worried, having tried to call him several times over the past few days, and more than a little put out. Since the last time he'd neglected to take her calls was during a certain international non-incident, he didn't blame her.

"No, sorry, I was in the middle of an...issue."

"Would I be reaching if I assumed it had something to do with your flatmate?"

John winced, aware of Sherlock raising an eyebrow at him from between stacks of evidence boxes. "Er, no. Not reaching, I mean. Yes, that's...yes."

She sighed, creating that odd static that made John wince. "You know it'll always be like this with him, don't you? You need to start putting your foot down."

"Yes. I mean, no, it wasn't his fault." Here Sherlock's brows drew together in a petulant scowl. He knew exactly what Sarah was saying, and John felt a bit like a piece of rope in the middle of a tug-of-war. "I...there was an incident at a crime scene, see, that was entirely my fault, and I've just been getting things sorted."

He chose not to mention that the incident had been days ago.

"Are you okay," she asked, switching from exasperated to concerned in the blink of an eye.

"Yes, fine."

As the conversation progressed, John couldn't help but get distracted by the way Sherlock was stretching out along the couch, flipping through a folder of postmortem notes. He had shucked his jacket off as soon as they'd got in, and the sleeves of his deep blue shirt had been rolled up, buttons undone at the throat. He looked so comfortable, his eyes half-shut as he glanced over the pages, and John was suddenly overcome with the urge to stretch out on top of him, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, listening to his heart beat.

"John? Are you still there?"

"Er, what? Yes. Sorry, it's been a long day," he said with a half-hearted chuckle.

"Right." Another sigh, and John cringed. Couldn't she have just texted him? "I'll call you tomorrow then."

"Sounds good."

"Love you," she said lightly, as she always did, citing her dislike for the word 'goodbye'.

"Love you, too," he responded automatically.

The sound of a folder hitting the floor with a pointed smack cut across the dial tone in his ear, and he glanced over to watch Sherlock curl up onto his side, back to John, a photo of a dismembered corpse in hand.

The image stuck with him as he lay in bed that night, tossing and turning and entirely unable to turn his brain off. Was this what it was like for Sherlock all the time? A million thoughts, hardly any of them making sense? Images, sounds, sensations, all crowding in and trying to make themselves known? There was something about them, these disjointed pictures, this static-filled audio, that would make perfect sense if he could just put it together the right way around.

Groaning, John hurled himself onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. Why should he care if Sherlock didn't like Sarah? Well, yes, it made John feel a bit giddy, the thought that Sherlock might be jealous, but that was one of the more ridiculous thoughts John had entertained lately.

There was no point in agonizing over it, though, so John sighed heavily and crawled out of bed. A glass of water and he would be right as rain.

As he inched down the steps, not wanting to intrude on Sherlock's sulking and end up on the wrong end of a cutting remark, he became aware of a warm light emanating from the kitchen. Grinning to himself, John stamped hard on the urge to giggle. Hadn't he once thought about spying on Sherlock to make sure he was eating something besides John's biscuits? Well, he could hardly pass up an opportunity like this.

Peering around the doorjamb, John first thought that Sherlock was performing some sort of heinous experiment with John's saucepan. It took another moment, and Sherlock mumbling "no, no, it smelled more..._more_" as he added a piece of semisweet chocolate to his concoction, for the truth to dawn on John.

Sherlock was making hot chocolate.

John spied the milk carton on the counter beside the stove, milk he'd just purchased, and pieces clicked together in his mind. He remembered the night they'd gotten home from the hospital, Sherlock still aching and bandaged, John sporting a knee brace. Sherlock had immediately gone to sleep on the couch, industrial-strength painkillers knocking him out almost before he could lie down. John, unable to sleep properly, had spent a few fitful hours in his armchair, alternating between watching Sherlock sleep and jerking out of half-awake nightmares.

Finally, he'd shuffled into the kitchen and made himself a cup of hot chocolate. It was a recipe his mother had handed down to him, the same recipe she'd used to make it for him when he'd been awakened by nightmares as a child. Just the smell of it warmed him from the inside out, and the surreal feeling of sitting in the brightly-lit kitchen on his mother's lap, warm and happy while the rest of the world was dark and cold was a memory he cherished.

Halfway through his drink, Sherlock had come in, question in his eyes, and John had made him a cup, as well.

_"Hot chocolate melts monsters and chases nightmares away. Even the worst little ghoulies are smothered with just a sip."_

The words his mother had repeated to him time and again had sounded a bit silly when directed at the lanky genius, but Sherlock had simply finished his hot chocolate, thanked John, and gone back to the couch. Never once had John imagined that it had truly comforted the man.

A frustrated growl drew him back into the present, and he sighed loudly, making Sherlock jerk around, nearly braining him with a saucepan full of boiling chocolate. Once he was certain that he wasn't about to get a face full of the confection, John took the pan and rinsed it out.

"Watch me," he murmured quietly, loathe to break the quiet atmosphere.

As he worked, he was distinctly aware of Sherlock's presence behind him, warm breath tickling his ear as the taller man peered over his shoulder. While they watched the chocolate melting, John felt Sherlock's hands come to rest on his hips, fingers pressing down the way they had when Sherlock had rubbed his neck in the cab earlier.

They stood like that as John stirred his concoction and Sherlock observed keenly, as he always did, bodies not quite touching in a way that was somehow more intimate than if they had been pressed together. When the chocolate was finished, John poured it into two mugs, pushing his back against Sherlock's chest to urge him to back up. There was a tense moment of hesitation before he complied, allowing John to move their treats to the table.

The kitchen was silent, filled with the glow of the stove light and the smell of cocoa, and John leaned against Sherlock, melting away monsters, chasing away nightmares, smothering all the little ghoulies that filled his thoughts and his heart. Sherlock relaxed bit by bit, clutching his mug tightly and staring into its depths. Maybe, John thought, he had ghoulies that needed smothering, too.

They sat for a long time, even after their mugs were empty, filled with a warmth that went beyond sugar and milk, safe in their own little bubble as the rest of the world slept.

**It seemed like such a small thing to me at the time, sharing that bit of my childhood with Sherlock. That night, discovering that Sherlock had been trying for months to recreate the feeling of comfort he'd gained from one cup of cocoa, made me feel both touched and melancholy. I wished he'd trusted me more, let his guard down enough to simply ask, but Sherlock Holmes did not ask for help easily, much less comfort. Perhaps I should have known then, practically cuddled up to him in the kitchen, that everything I had thought I wanted was about to crumble around me. Perhaps I should have realized that it had started crumbling the moment I met Sherlock Holmes...**

:::

To Be Continued...

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A/N - Wow!

I was _not_ expecting this chapter to be so long! =3 It's amazing what can develop. I already have the synopsis for each chapter planned out, but I hadn't predicted that there'd be so much I needed to put in here...

Well, at least we know where all the milk is going. Perhaps now they can manage to make a carton stretch for more than a day or two!

Who else wanted to cheer when John punched Anderson?

*waves pocket watch back and forth in front of readers* You are getting sleeepyyyy...and when you wake up, you will want to revieeewwww...

Songs for this chapter: 'Kitten Is Angry' (Lemon Demon) and 'Hurricane' (Panic! at the Disco).

Peace.

Akiko


	8. Mortimer W Holmes, PhD

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Seven: Mortimer W. Holmes, PhD

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**Something changed that night, something intangible, as Sherlock and I sat together with our hot chocolate. Whatever it was, it eased my mind somehow, and I drifted off easily as soon as I was snug under my blankets. It was a good thing I got a good night's sleep, too, because the next week was bad enough without worrying about sleep deprivation...|**

John was on edge. Any lingering feelings of peace and contentment that night in the kitchen had imbued him with were long gone. He was supremely unsurprised that the reason behind this was Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_. John's whole bloody life bloody revolved around bloody Sherlock, from the time he woke up and had to mind that no human bits got mixed in with the sausages, to the time he went to bed and had to remove a stack of books on jellyfish from the bathroom sink.

The newest reason John was near to tearing his own hair out (and yes, he had a list for that, too, tucked between the pages of his drug guide, with all the others) was the one-man-war Sherlock was currently waging against John's personal space. He seemed to find more and more excuses to squeeze into John's personal bubble. One evening, much to John's horror, Sherlock had tried to help cook. Well, not _cook_, per se. It was more Sherlock wedging himself in between the stove and the refrigerator, pointing out all the things vinegar could remove bloodstains from. And the morning after that, they'd passed each other in the stairs, and Sherlock had bumped hips with John. For no reason. Playfully.

Something terrible was happening to John's flatmate, and he wasn't entirely certain that he wanted to know what it was, but he knew he wanted it to stop.

_Bad enough I spend far too much time in the shower thinking about him anyway. If he pushes me up against the wall one more time..._

He wanted to talk to Sherlock about it, reiterate that yes, John understood that Sherlock could not be bound by the social niceties of the average human being, and no, John was not trying to force Sherlock to pretend to be something he wasn't, but if Sherlock did not stop invading his personal space, John was going to snap and just take him up against the wall in the stairwell, and to hell with Mrs. Hudson, she could just avert her damned eyes.

Sadly, every time John thought to say something, he just couldn't get the words to line up in his mind the right way around. It always seemed to end up reading 'drop your trousers and bend over,' which was a lovely thought, but definitely unacceptable. _One_ of the residents of 221B Baker Street needed to adhere to social conventions, and it wasn't going to be Sherlock. So John never said anything, and Sherlock didn't stop.

When Sarah called, asking if he'd like to see the Captain America movie, John felt as though the hand of God had reached out to him.

"God, yes, tonight, please."

Sarah laughed. "Trouble at home?"

"Oh, just...Sherlock. You know how he can get."

His girlfriend then made a noncommital humming sound, the sort that said 'I'm making a show of being polite, when we both know what I really want to say, and it's not very nice'. The feeling of being caught in a tug-of-war that would undoubtedly end with him all stretched-out and hurting returned with a vengeance. As much as he dreaded hearing about how he let Sherlock take advantage of him all evening, though, John knew that he couldn't stay in the flat one minute more.

The film was not very enjoyable. As a rule, John liked comic books, and movies, and comic book movies. He was even getting into this particular movie, until Bucky died, at which point he had to run to the toilet to splash cold water on his face. He stood hunched over the sink, hands planted on either side, as faces flashed across his mind's eye. Faces of men he'd known, been friends with, shared meals with. Dead faces.

Before he could sink any deeper into a black hole of despair, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

**Come to Baker Street at once. SH**

John blinked. It hadn't even been a full hour since he'd left, what the hell had Sherlock managed to get into in that amount of time?

Shaking away thoughts of human tongues melted to their broiler pan and decomposing pig corpses in the bath, John typed out a quick reply informing Sherlock that he was busy and went to rejoin Sarah. She leaned in, concerned, but he waved her away with an easy smile.

"Shouldn't have gotten the large soda," he explained with a laugh.

He had settled back to endure the rest of the film, when his phone vibrated again. Sarah tutted beside him, brow furrowed in annoyance as he pulled up the message.

**Urgent. SH**

Groaning, John turned to Sarah to apologize, but she was already waving him away, tearing open her M&Ms with vicious intensity.

"Sorry," he whispered, wincing when she pretended not to hear him.

When he returned home, it was to find their kitchen table lying in a pile of kindling on the floor, smoldering lightly. Apparently, the way a certain consulting detective explained it in an unconvincingly contrite tone, an experiment on the flammable properties of human kidneys had gotten out of hand, and their table was an unfortunate casualty.

John spent a good hour shouting at Sherlock, informing him that no possibly flammable or combustible or otherwise conflagrant experiments were to be done when John was away, berating him for texting John before running for the extinguisher, reminding him that Mrs. Hudson had been home, and could have been hurt if the flat had caught fire (and this made Sherlock's eyes widen and his lips purse, so John thought he might have actually felt bad about that), and finishing with a promise to ban all experiments for a month if he did something so stupid again.

If he had hoped that the table inferno fiasco had been the end of it, he would have been sorely disappointed. The very next night, when John had taken Sarah to The Landau as an apology (an expensive apology, but she deserved it), they had barely taken their seats when John's phone rang.

Sarah had sighed heavily, muttering that perhaps John should turn his phone off. He paid that thought no mind, because the one time he had turned his phone off, Sherlock had spent four hours huddled in a kitchen cabinet in a serial killer's house, waiting for John to get his text. No, John did not ignore Sherlock, because there was no telling why the man was texting him.

This message was even more succinct than the last.

**Emergency. Hurry. SH**

**Is something on fire? JW**

**Not yet. SH**

Yet? John bolted up from his chair so fast, it toppled over backwards and startled the other diners. He threw down a wad of cash and attempted an apologetic smile. He was certain it came off looking like a wide grin - it always did when he detected the prospect of an adventure.

"Sorry, gotta go, might be on fire," he breathed in a rush as he shrugged on his jacket. "Stay, have the lamb, on me."

As it turned out, nothing was on fire, although it may have been a close thing, had he not arrived to see Sherlock reaching for the switch to turn on their garbage disposal. He wasn't sure what would have happened had the blades of the disposal come into contact with two of the magazines for his handgun, but it probably wouldn't have been pretty. All Sherlock could offer in explanation was that he'd intended to use the bullets in an experiment, and had lost his grip whilst trying to empty them into the bowl in the sink.

Once John had pointed out that anything to do with guns could be considered conflagrant, and had subsequently banned Sherlock from doing any experiments for a month, John explained that if Sherlock ever touched any part of his gun or anything that he used in the care and/or use of his gun, John would ban him from doing cases as well. The petulant, wounded look Sherlock sported almost eased the irritation John felt at being interrupted on a date yet again.

Almost.

Over the next four days Sherlock interrupted every date he had with Sarah. While she had been somewhat alarmed by the burning table and outright horrified at the bullets in the drain, subsequent 'emergencies' did not amuse her.

**Baker Street. Structural emergency. SH**

Which, in Sherlock-ese, means 'I fell partway through the floor and can't pull myself out'.

**Have been attacked by feral animal. Bleeding. SH**

This translated into 'a mouse got into the flat and bit me when I grabbed it'.

**Electrical damage. Have been burned. SH**

Meaning 'I've managed to break the volume control on the CD player and was so entranced by its inner workings that I neglected to unplug it before dicking 'round inside it like a _complete moron_'.

By the end of the week, John was ready to murder Sherlock and stuff his lifeless corpse under the floorboards. Nobody would catch him - he had learned enough from Sherlock to execute a brilliant homicide, and with no consulting detective around to lead the police to the right conclusion, he was sure to get away with it. The only thing stopping him was the thought that a rotting corpse would be as unbearable to live with as Sherlock was whilst alive.

Well, that and the fact that he loved the bastard, even when he was driving John up the wall, or perhaps especially then.

August 12th rolled around. This date was significant for two reasons. The first was because it was Sarah's birthday. The second was because it was the day John was hit by the Clue Bus and limped away the better for it.

Sarah was unusually quiet throughout her birthday breakfast. John had slept on the couch the night before (after unplugging every electronic device in the house except the fridge and informing Sherlock that if he wanted to play with live wires, he should at least have the decency to get a proper shock), just so he could make her breakfast. He was rewarded with a chaste kiss and a grateful smile.

Just as he was pouring her a fresh cup of coffee, his phone chirped.

John froze, eyes darting from his phone, lying on the counter innocuously, to Sarah, sitting in her chair, her expression as blank, as still as if she'd been carved out of marble.

"Er-"

"John, so help me, if you pick up that phone..."

They stared at each other for a moment. John's imagination, not nearly as detailed as Sherlock's might be, was very vibrant nonetheless. He could picture explosions that shattered their windows, assassins that left holes in heads as the only evidence that they had been there, poisons taken at gunpoint, cold little madmen in three-piece suits...

John picked up his phone.

**Broken. Please come. SH**

Please.

_Please._

Looking up at Sarah, John was taken aback by the look on her face. Her eyes were sad, fixed on his phone with resignation, but her lips were smiling faintly. She looked resigned, as though she'd never doubted that John would read the text, would now be running off on her again, on her birthday, to go to his flatmate's rescue. There was grief, defeat, admiration, worry, frustration, all in that one look. Then it was covered over by the usual exaspirated expression she wore whenever Sherlock popped up unexpectedly.

John opened his mouth to apologize. What came out was, "He said please."

Picking up the dishes, Sarah jerked her head towards the door. "Go," she said, rolling her eyes. "I expect he's got his foot stuck in the toilet or something."

As it turned out, Sherlock did not have his foot stuck in the toilet.

The moment John entered the flat at a run, he was swept up in a flurry of coat and scarf and Sherlock and was dragged to the couch and shoved down onto it.

"Fix it, John!"

Trying to clear the fog of 'what the hell just happened' from his mind, John gazed down at his patient, lying shattered and forlorn on the coffee table.

Neck broken, structure cracked and dented, Sherlock's violin looked, to John's inexpert eye, entirely irreparable. Only two of the strings hadn't been snapped, holding the neck of the instrument on like a limb dangling from a few strips of flesh.

"What happened to it," John asked quietly, not looking up at Sherlock.

"I dropped my beekeeping books...the Encyclopedia Hymenoptera- it's hardbound, it...and the Comprehensive Guide To Apiculture, both volumes- heavy books, and they fell, and...and..."

Tearing his eyes from the violin at the helpless, grief-stricken tone of Sherlock's voice, John looked at his flatmate kneeling on the floor in front of the couch.

Sherlock's eyes were wide, locked on his violin with a look of utter horror. His normally-pallid cheeks were flushed, his hair rumpled like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. Hands that were trembling, as though he was restraining himself from reaching out to touch the instrument. His lips were pressed together as his gaze flickered to John.

"Fix it. Please."

John hesitated, brow wrinkling as he considered his options. He could promise to fix the violin, take it to a shop that could do that kind of thing. Alternatively, he could buy Sherlock a new violin, though it would take a while to pay it off, since he'd blown his savings when he took Sarah to The Landau at the beginning of the week. Both of those options seemed, to John, to be the most logical and least upsetting options.

_This is Sherlock_, John berated himself.

Sherlock had not called for John because he wanted John to fix the violin. He was far too analytical, too rational for that. He knew that John knew nothing about violins, most especially about fixing them. He had no doubt already deduced what John had, even with his meager knowledge on the subject - the violin was beyond repair.

"Sherlock-"

"_John_," Sherlock breathed, his face scrunched up, as though he wanted to cry but wasn't sure how to go about it, "I've had it since I was twelve. I play it for you when you have nightmares. I can't stop you having nightmares if it's broken. Please, fix it. Please."

Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, John slid off the couch to kneel in front of Sherlock, blocking the taller man's view of the remains of his violin. Not knowing what else to do, John reached out and wrapped Sherlock in his arms. For a moment Sherlock tensed, unused to such intimate physical contact. Then, as though his own strings had snapped, the detective slumped against John, his long fingers threading through the belt loops of John's jeans as he pressed his face into John's shoulder.

Soft, ghostly whispers of music drifted through John's memory; soft music, played absentmindedly, as though it was merely an extension of Sherlock's thoughts. Strains of Mozart when he was thinking on a case. Raucous renditions of Bach when he was annoyed. The haphazard noise he produced when trying to annoy others. And other sounds, fainter, songs played in the darkness, permeating the heat and burn and blood of his dreams to wrap him in cool, black silk.

Anyone who had ever claimed that Sherlock felt nothing had never fallen asleep to the gentle melodies he created.

"I'm sorry," John whispered hoarsely into Sherlock's hair, not certain if he was apologizing for his inability to fix this, or simply sorry that he hadn't respected this aspect of Sherlock more.

_'I can't stop you having nightmares if it's broken...'_

What could he say to that? 'Thank-you'? 'It's okay'? Even 'I love you' sounded pithy and unremarkable, even though John had never ached to say it more than he did in that moment. Love was a laughably simple, common word for the surge of emotion clenching a fist around his heart, tightening his throat and making his eyes burn. He held on to Sherlock tighter, hoping to express through this gesture what he couldn't begin to express in words.

They stayed like that, fitting together perfectly from knee to shoulder, until Sherlock's phone began to ring. At first, John thought the detective had fallen asleep, until the man sighed and unwound his fingers from the doctor's belt loops. The fingers of John's left hand, which had tangled themselves in Sherlock's hair of their own volition, gripped infinitesimally tighter, before John, too, pulled away.

Eyes fixed on the floor, Sherlock went to answer his mobile, leaving John to lean back against the couch and stretch out his legs. As the prickly pins-and-needles crept through his feet, John gnawed on his bottom lip and regarded the violin contemplatively.

"Throw it away," Sherlock intoned dispassionately, not even sparing it a glance as he made for the door. "Be quick, we're needed at the Yard."

When he was certain Sherlock had gone outside to hail a cab, John lifted the shattered piece of Sherlock's heart in his hands, cradling it as carefully as possible, laid it in a long-empty evidence box, and tucked it safely under his bed.

Some time later, while Sherlock was holed up in his lab at St. Bart's and John was flipping through the pages of the Encyclopedia Hymenoptera Volume One, the doctor received a text from Sarah.

**We need to talk. Meet you at Patisserie Valerie in 20. ~Sarah**

The taxi ride to the café was one of the longest and shortest of John's life. He had no idea what to say to Sarah. He knew he couldn't keep doing this to her, forcing her to face the fact that John would always choose Sherlock over her, time and again. It wasn't fair to her. She was a beautiful, sweet, loving woman. In another life, a life where he'd never known Sherlock Holmes, John was certain he would have ended up married to her, lots of little blonde children running around underfoot, all gathered at the dinner table to talk about school and work and their trip to the country for the weekend, in their nice little house with it's neat little garden.

It was a vivid image, so clear to him that John could almost believe there _was_ another life, in which he had never met Sherlock, and had married Sarah, and had settled down in more ways than one. It was chatter, and laughter, and sunnybrightwarm. It was the sort of life John had once believed he could have, could want, if only he had never...

Never...

Suddenly, so suddenly his breath caught, John saw another life. It was as warm as the first, but inky darkness marked by moonlight on windowpanes and pinpricks of neon against the sky. It was the smell of chemicals and tea, the feel of cool satin and kittenfursoft. And there was Sherlock, and music, and racing over rooftops beneath the stars, and curling up beside each other in silence. If the future with Sarah was gentle touches and basking in the sun, the future with Sherlock was reverent kisses and whispers in the shadows.

With Sarah, he felt as though they were two people who fit together, easily, tacitly.

With Sherlock, he felt as though they had always been meant to be one person, tangled and sticky and never to be parted.

Even though he knew the life he might have had with Sarah was far more attainable than the life he wanted with Sherlock, the idea of settling with Sarah, settling _for_ Sarah, made him feel ill. It wasn't fair to her, not when she knew all-too-well that she would only ever be second in his heart. And it wasn't fair to himself, to try to force himself into that life. Not now, when he knew that he would never want anything more than he wanted that second future he saw.

So when Sarah told him that she couldn't be with him anymore, he nodded, took her hands, told her he understood. Let her know that he was sorry for the way he'd treated her, sorry for the trouble he'd caused her. Hell, he'd nearly gotten her killed on their first date, he chuckled self-depricatingly.

Sarah smiled, the same defeated smile she'd worn that morning. "Don't be stupid, John. I knew exactly what I was getting into the moment Sherlock barged in on that date."

Laughing more openly this time, John leaned back. "I suppose it's tough not to realize exactly what Sherlock is like the moment you meet him."

"Oh, I don't mean that," Sarah said, sipping her latte daintily as she crossed her ankles. "I mean the fact that you're in love with him."

It was a good thing John had finished his tea, because that was the very definition of a spit-take moment. As it was, he felt his cheeks warm as his jaw dropped, and suddenly it was much harder to breathe than it had been just seconds ago.

"I...you...love..._what_?"

Raising one eyebrow, Sarah shook her head. "You don't honestly think I didn't know, did you? Come on, John. You race to do his bidding, follow where he leads, never question him. You trust him implicitly."

"We're friends, of course I-"

"Oh, please," Sarah cut him off with a wave of her hand. "John, you always defend him, but you've never made excuses for him. You see all his faults and accept him anyway. And the way you look at him, as though he's the only person in the world, even when I'm standing right next to you..." The smile was back, what John was coming to term Sarah's Sherlock Smile, as she trailed off.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. What was he supposed to say now? 'Sorry I fancy my abrasive, unhinged, asexual male flatmate more than you?' No, best not.

"I don't really know what else there is to say," she was continuing, fingers gliding around the rim of her cup. "All I can think is...well, that I hope Sherlock is good to you, John, because you're so good to him, so very good, and it hurts to watch sometimes, thinking that no matter how much he loves you, he could never treat you the way you deserve to be treated."

A hot wave of defensiveness roared through John. Sherlock _was_ good to him, even if he showed it in odd ways. He kept his experiments away from anything tea-related, sat through hours of game shows and old comedies when John got tired of real crime tv, went grocery shopping because he wanted John to be happy. Again, barely-there memories of soft violin music tickled at the back of his mind. Sherlock wasn't always a good person, but he was a good friend.

John opened his mouth to relate this to Sarah, when the rest of her statement caught up to him. So instead, he choked down the bitter taste in his mouth and shook his head.

_She doesn't realize, does she? Doesn't know how utterly wrong she is,_ he thought darkly.

"Sherlock isn't in love with me," he said quietly, fiddling with his napkin and not daring to look her in the eyes. He didn't want to see her pity, to know what she must be thinking. 'Poor John,' she would think, 'madly in love with a man who will never love him back. Bound to follow him, to stand beside him, but never to be with him. How sad.' "Sherlock isn't...he doesn't..."

"John," Sarah said, reaching out to take his hand warmly, "look at me."

Peeking up, John was relieved to see that she didn't look pitying at all. In fact, she looked...amused?

Well. Nice that someone was tickled by this mess.

Sarah was speaking again, slowly, as though she was speaking to a small child. "Sherlock loves you. He is in love with you. He may not know how to show it, but I promise you, John, he loves you as much as you love him."

He must have sat there in a daze for some time, because when he looked up, Sarah was gone and the sun was setting. He didn't remember getting a taxi home, but he must have, because he vaguely recalled handing money over to someone in a car, and he must have gone upstairs and unlocked the door and sat down in his favorite chair, because suddenly, he was looking up at Mort from where he sat.

"Sherlock doesn't love me," he said tonelessly.

Mort stared at him, and if John were just a tad less mentally stable, he might've believed the skull had raised one eyebrow, much as Sarah had done.

John had replaced the smiley plaster on his zygomatic bone with one that had Hello Kitty. It had annoyed Sherlock, but it was the good kind of annoyed, where he pouted and snarked and made a nuisance of himself in revenge. The jaunty little Hamlet cap had slipped down a bit over his brow, and John smiled.

Standing to take the skull down from his perch, John leaned back against the mantelpiece and straightened Mort's hat. "What do you think, Mort? Am I kidding myself here? I must be. I must be mental to even think about it," he groaned, smoothing a finger over the sticking plaster absently. "Well, there was never any doubt that I was crackers, was there? I'm too close to forty years old for my own comfort, living with a mad detective with whom I run about London solving crimes, and when I need a bit of sanity in my life, I go to my therapist, Mortimer W. Holmes." John grinned. "PhD."

"Clearly, you could use a bit more in the way of sanity."

John jumped, knocking Mort's hat askew once more. "Christ," he yelped, putting his free hand over his heart. "Bell, Sherlock. Get one. Wear it. Soon, before my heart gives out."

The detective flashed him that quirky little grin that he often wore when John said something amusing. "Don't be foolish, John. How would I eavesdrop on your mad conversations with inanimate objects if I did that?"

_Oh, God, he didn't hear that, did he? Tell me he didn't, _John thought, panicked. _I didn't say anything damning, did I?_

If he'd heard anything unusual, Sherlock gave no indication, and John didn't bring it up. He noticed, though, the way Sherlock smiled at him, more openly and fondly than he had in the past. It warmed him, if only a little, that even if Sherlock didn't love him, he did care.

That night, when John was caught in the throes of a nightmare, a deep, rich voice humming a familiar tune wove itself into his dreams, wrapping him in cool, dark silk, protecting him from the heat and burn and blood. It was the slightest of feelings, a mere shadow of something more, and when he woke up the next morning, he wouldn't remember it at all.

**I couldn't believe that Sarah honestly thought Sherlock loved me. I came to the conclusion that it was what she needed to believe to comfort herself, though the thought was frighteningly egotistical of me. Even worse was the fact that, as things continued to become muddied and unclear, thoughts of Sarah vanished, leaving only Sherlock to occupy my mind...|**

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - OMGLOLNoWay! A chapter!

God, this was excruciating to write. Not just because it's emotionally tense and a definite turning point, but because real life has continued to intrude like a nosy neighbor, throwing me off my game entirely. This is why I don't like to make promises or deadlines. Ah, well. It got done!

For anyone who cares, this chapter was started in Las Vegas, where I stayed overnight to attend a college thingy. I got bored during the presentation, and scrawled the first few paragraphs on a piece of scrap paper.

The hotel I stayed in had a pub called Queen Victoria's. The food was excellent, there was a UEFC championship game on, and the bartender was Scottish. Absolutely worth the trip.

Trying to think of what sort of lullaby Sherlock might play John, just to get the song in my head, I started looking up violin pieces, and stumbled across a neo-classical duo called Secret Garden who have created some of the most beautiful music I've ever heard. One of their songs, 'Dreamcatcher', is exactly what I imagine Sherlock's lullaby for John would sound like. Well, what it would sound like, if he had a cellist and pianist on hand to accompany him, but I'm certain he'd do just fine on his own.

Review, please! You have to tell me what a horrible person I am for leaving it for so long!

Songs for this chapter: 'Sarah Smiles' (Panic! At The Disco) and 'Silence Speaks' (Secret Garden)

Peace.

Akiko


	9. Is This A Bad Time?

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Eight: Is This A Bad Time?

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**I got that uncomfortable feeling of being out-of-phase with the rest of the world for the next week or so, like being suspended in jelly, only not as delicious. This sensation of being on the edge of something, unable to move back to safety, yet unable to move forward and fall into...whatever, was both daunting and tiring. I knew that things kept changing between me and Sherlock, and I wasn't sure it was for the better...|**

There was so much tension in the air, John could taste it. Maybe that's what was fogging his brain so much lately. It was a strange feeling, unpleasant, and resulted in many an embarrassing situation. The less said about his near-acceptance of a date with Sally Donavan, the better. Thank goodness Sherlock had grabbed his elbow before he could answer, dragging him away with a cutting remark for the fuming sergeant.

It was exactly ten days from Sarah's disastrous birthday when, once again, John had the nauseating experience of the whole world suddenly come into focus - the wood grain of the new dining table sharpening, sirens passing by their window blaring, the smell of burning pork invading his sinuses - only to find that twelve hours had passed that he couldn't quite remember, and Sherlock was apparently making stir-fry with a pork chop John had taken out of the freezer. According to his flatmate, John had said something about making steak, which was ridiculous, because you can't make steak out of pork chops. _Obviously_. It appeared that methods of frozen meat identification were not in John's hard drive.

"Where is your head these days, John? Don't tell me you're becoming as dull as all the others; I should be very disappointed were that true."

All-in-all, John felt that he could do without this particular verse of the madly-in-love-with-your-asexual-flatmate song. As he flopped back in his bed, still trying to clear the acrid smell of burning pineapple from his senses, he pondered what that song would sound like. Very upbeat and cheery-sounding, but with deathmetal-depressing lyrics. There would be a whole dance routine, too, like the Macarena, only more complex and too quick for John's stumbling feet to keep up with.

Apparently, the four-and-a-half-hour (and John had done his best to calculate how long it actually was) embrace over the corpse of Sherlock's violin had only encouraged the consulting detective that his bloodthirsty assault on John's personal bubble was effective. John had spent the last week being startled out of his perpetual daze by Sherlock grasping his shoulder tightly to steer him hither, thither, and yon; or by the feel of the taller man's chest pressing against his back while he was doing dishes, Sherlock stretching and pushing and _rubbing_ as he reached for the cabinets above John's head; and sometimes just by Sherlock's bare foot brushing John's ankle under the table while the doctor tried to make Sherlock have just one piece of toast, please, before he withered away into nothing.

And damned if just that slight touch of skin on skin hadn't gone straight to his libido. It just wasn't fair that Sherlock got to faff about, flouncing here and there and never bothered in the slightest by his sex drive, and John had to reinact his schoolboy days, carefully arranging a book or newspaper in his lap or risk humiliating himself. Why, _why_ was Sherlock doing this to him? Didn't he realize how very intoxicatingly sexy he was?

_Bet he does,_ John thought with a frown as he rolled onto his side to face the wall. _I'll bet he knows exactly how gorgeous he is, the bastard._

How could he not? He was an etheral mix of boyish cuteness (messy curls begging for fingers to thread through them, a shy smile that needed to be kissed, nipped, devoured) and sophisticated beauty (smooth, pale skin made for marking with teeth and tongue, lean limbs perfect for getting tangled in).

His eyes, that odd greengraygold, like gemstones in alabaster, were so captivating there were times John wasn't sure he could ever look away. He could picture them clearly, sharp, intelligent, blazing with excitement, burning into him. He could hear Sherlock's voice, a voice that could go so deep and soft it was nothing more than a purr that never failed to make John half-hard.

Groaning into his pillow, John pressed his palm to the bulge in his trousers. He had resorted to this far more often in the past few months than he had in his entire life, including his tour of duty. It wasn't surprising when all it took was the sound of Sherlock saying his name in that low, toe-curling tone. Still, it felt wrong, disrespectful somehow, to do it when Sherlock was sitting just downstairs. Hell, the man could probably hear him.

That thought should not have turned him on.

His movements were quick, desperate. Desperate for what, he wasn't sure. Was it simply a need for release, or fear of getting caught, of Sherlock knowing that John was jerking off while thinking of him -

His phone chimed, and John knew it was Sherlock, knew he shouldn't be reading texts from his flatmate while he pleasured himself, and he suspected part of him was hoping he'd gotten caught.

**Come downstairs. SH**

And seconds later he ended up having to wipe his...ahem...off the screen of his phone. The phone his _sister_ had given him, for God's sake. The thought made him more than a little queasy, and he resolved to get in touch with her an apologize, even if he would never, _ever_ tell her what for.

'Come downstairs.' It wasn't anything dirty. His mind probably wouldn't have even tried to make some ridiculous double entendre out of it if he hadn't been in the middle of what had ended up being a very satisfying, somewhat humiliating wank. So maybe he had fantasized about Sherlock demanding that he come in that excruciatingly sexy voice of his. That was no excuse for losing his mind over a bloody text message.

And what the hell was Sherlock doing, texting him? John had gone up to his room, what, twenty minutes ago? If that! For fuck's sake, he could just shout up the damned stairs if he needed something, why the fuck did he need to be texting him?

John quickly cleaned himself up and threw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt before stomping down the stairs very deliberately.

Sherlock was curled up in John's favorite chair in his usual position, what John mentally referred to as The Folded Fan - knees drawn up so that his heels were pressed to his bottom, arms tucked between his thighs and chest, hands pressed together and fingers touching his lips as though praying. John could not begin to fathom how the man had managed to squish himself up like that, and was definitely _not_ considering all the positive connotations such flexibility had. He stood in front of Sherlock and fumed.

Blinking, staring at John like he had no clue why he was there, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"Shut up," John growled, pleased when Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally and his mouth snapped shut so quickly his teeth clacked audibly. "Just shut up so I can think of how to say this calmly and rationally, because right now I'm in the mood to shout until your ears ring, and I don't want to disturb Mrs. Hudson."

Nodding, Sherlock watched him guardedly. John knew he was thinking of the last time John's voice had sounded so frantically hysterical, and was probably envisioning himself standing in the bakery department, texting John inane questions about the purpose behind so very many types of bread.

**Really, John,** one text had read, **what is the difference between butter-top and regular bread? Why can't people butter the tops of their own bread?**

Pushing away any thoughts of cuddling Sherlock that those memories inspired in him, John crossed his arms and planted his feet (what Sherlock called his Supremely Unimpressed Immovable Drill Sergeant pose), preparing for what would undoubtedly be an infuriating conversation the ended with John storming out and leaving Sherlock to sulk like a toddler. They had so many of those conversations, although less frequently lately. John wasn't sure if that was because Sherlock was being less difficult, or if it was because his patience in dealing with Sherlock had improved.

"Sherlock," he began, speaking slowly and quietly, afraid that if he let himself start yelling he might lose it entirely and just molest Sherlock right then and there, or smother him to death with a pillow, he hadn't quite decided, but such was the nature of their relationship, "I don't care if you're drowning in jam while being stung to death by wasps to an accompaniment of Yanni music. I'm going to bed. I'm going to sleep. And you are not going to text me, call me, shout for me, post me a letter, or otherwise disturb me for the next eight hours, are we clear? I don't want to hear, see, or sense anything to do with you until the sun is well up, and if I do, I'm going to use everything I've learned from you to murder you and dissolve your body in hydrochloric acid in the bath. Good night."

"John..."

Damnation! How was John supposed to be resolute when Sherlock was looking up at him with those eyes, all wide and startled like a baby deer? How was he supposed to storm out in a huff when Sherlock was calling out to him so uncertainly?

No, no, he was angry. He was furious, and embarrassed, and at the end of his Sanity Rope. He was not going to let Sherlock order him about anymore.

"_No_," he said firmly, narrowing his eyes. "Listen to me, Sherlock, because I'm only going to say this once more. I am not your servant. I am not your housemaid. I am not your lapdog. I am your partner, your flatmate, and your friend." Running a hand through his hair, John let his shoulders slump. It was as though the last month-and-a-half had suddenly dropped onto his shoulders, weighing him down under a mountain of doubt, worry, bitterness, humiliation, and unconditional, unrequited love. It was a wonder he hadn't been crushed entirely.

"We're supposed to be equals, Sherlock," he continued, sounding far more tired and sad than he had been aiming for. "Maybe not in intellect, but in practice, in life, we're supposed to be on even footing. I always try to treat you fairly, to understand where you're coming from, but you're making it difficult. You keep treating me like some kind of...of _pet_," he spat, not liking to use Moriarty's words, but unable to think of something more fitting, "to be dragged about on a short leash. And maybe that's partly my fault, because I've never refused you, and you've gotten spoiled, but you have got to learn about boundaries, Sherlock. And restraint. Like tonight."

Sherlock wasn't looking at John anymore, for which the doctor was grateful, because he wasn't sure he would have been able to continue if he'd had to look him in the eye. The lean man was looking despondant, eyes downturned and head bowed guiltily.

_Resolve_, John told himself. _He has to know that there are limits_.

"Was what you had to say to me so important that it couldn't have waited until tomorrow? Did it really necessitate you texting me while I was in my room, getting ready for bed? Could you not have waited just a few more hours?"

Sherlock bowed his head further, shoulders tense. John felt that something else was going on in Sherlock's head, and he had the oddest feeling that it was nudging at him, like when you can't think of the name of a song that someone on the bus was humming. Some part of him understood that whatever Sherlock had to say _was_ important, and that he wasn't going to find out what it was, not after his rant.

_Fuck_, John thought. _Fucking, fuckity-fuck, shit, fuck fuck __**fuck**_.

Whatever was going on, whatever had been about to happen, had been big. That precipice he and Sherlock had been standing on was suddenly a mile away. The aura of a missed opportunity filled to room, and John suddenly felt very, very small.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, moving to sit across from Sherlock on the footrest. "Really. I know that whatever you have to say is important. I'm just...I'm just tired," he finished lamely, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"You always answer me," Sherlock said quietly, tonelessly.

"Sorry?"

Looking up at John and locking their gazes, Sherlock clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them, watching John over the tops of his knees with an inscrutable expression. "Do you know how often I text, John?"

Of course, John was tempted to roll his eyes at that, but he restrained himself valiantly and waited for Sherlock to continue.

"Do you know how many people reply?"

John paused for a moment, going through his memory. Lestrade called Sherlock, but only if there was a case, and never in reply to any of the texts Sherlock sent. Mycroft called, preferring not to text, when he wanted something from Sherlock. John honestly couldn't think of anyone else Sherlock texted.

No, that wasn't true. Sherlock texted Molly with requests for body parts, he texted insults John would probably rather not be privy to to Anderson, he texted the occasional thank-you to Mrs. Hudson when the long-suffering landlady brought by biscuits or soup. Did any of them ever reply? Text back, phone, even mention it in passing when they met face-to-face?

John could count the number of texts Sherlock received from them on one hand.

On one hand, he could understand it, especially from Anderson. They probably thought Sherlock wouldn't want them to reply, or wouldn't care. Anderson was undoubtedly reluctant to encourage the man. It was logical, wasn't it? Sherlock disregarded the thoughts of others so often, why wouldn't they assume it would be no different in text form?

"You always answer, John," Sherlock continued, still pinning John in place with an analytical stare. "No matter what you're doing, where you are, who you're with, you answer me."

As he spoke, he opened his hands to reveal his mobile, running long fingers over the keys, caressing it tenderly as though it was his most precious possession. Stroking, rubbing, delicate touches...

_Oh, god, he's given me a phone fetish_, John thought with a mental whimper. At the same time, he leaned over, propping his elbows on his knees, hunkering down to hopefully disguise his excitement.

"At first, I did it to test you," the detective admitted, "to find out what buttons I could push, what buttons I shouldn't. But you were so...consistant. So..." Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes, and he paused as though remembering something. Then it was gone, and he was back to staring John down, face blank and voice emotionless. "I found it fascinating, how accomodating you were. It became an addiction, making demands of you. I feared every time that it would be the final straw, and every time you texted back, or called, or came rushing to my side, I felt...happy. Content. Yes, you would become irritated, but no matter how much I pushed or how angry you became, you never..."

John waited. Never hit him? Never stole his phone and put it down the garbage disposal? Never what?

"...you never left," Sherlock finished in a whisper, suddenly sounding more vulnerable than John had ever seen him, even when he was mourning his violin.

Oh.

_Oh._

John wanted to say something. He should apologize for overreacting. He should comfort Sherlock, reassure him that he wasn't really angry. He should open his heart, just a little bit, and promise Sherlock that he wouldn't leave, no matter what.

"You're an idiot," he said.

Sherlock blinked at him, looking more affronted than John thought possible.

The doctor pressed his face into his hands for a moment, considering his words carefully. After a few beats, he lifted his head, slid off the footrest, and knelt in front of the chair. "I'm not leaving, Sherlock. Not until you turn me away. I need to be here, as much as you need me to be here, and I know you do, so don't act like you don't."

Letting his feet slip off the chair, Sherlock leaned forward until his nose nearly brushed John's and smiled. For a second, John thought Sherlock was going to kiss him.

John's phone chirped.

Jerking back, John fumbled for the phone (studiously not thinking about what he'd just done with said phone, entirely inadvertantly, mind you, he wasn't some kind of pervert). He tried to slow his heart rate and breathing, tried not to let Sherlock know how very much he'd wanted to just lean in, just a bit...

**Thank you. SH**

John looked up, startled, but Sherlock was walking into the kitchen, waving one hand airily. "Goodnight, John. Sleep well."

He did not sleep well at all.

All night, John tossed and turned. The whole affair had been confusing and emotionally charged. He still had no idea why Sherlock had texted him in the first place, and it bothered him. More than that, he still felt horribly remorseful.

Of course Sherlock had attachment issues. Of course he would believe that John would run screaming into the night one day. No doubt, plenty of people already had - the man was difficult to live with, even for someone who loved him as frighteningly deeply as John did. He should have known, should have understood what Sherlock meant with his texts.

'Are you still there?'

'Are you still my friend?'

'Will you leave me behind?'

John finally fell into a fitful sleep at six, hugging his pillow to his chest and feeling sick to his stomach with guilt.

He awoke sometime in the late afternoon, feeling like his gut was hollow and empty and his limbs were made of lead. Just the thought of getting out of bed made him want to cry, but he couldn't summon the energy to do so. He could hardly even open his eyes.

Depression was setting in, leaving him feeling cold and heavy and worthless. It was a horrible, familiar feeling that took John back to those first days after waking up in the field hospital in Afghanistan. The overwhelming feeling of failure, the knowledge that someone who depended on you had been let down.

His phone was blinking at him from the nightstand. John didn't want to pick it up, didn't want to move, didn't want to drag himself back into civilization.

_"You always answer..."_

With a groan and a great deal of effort, John hurled himself onto his stomach and grabbed the phone, pulling up the message.

**Good morning, John. I'm at Bart's until late. Chinese for dinner? SH**

John sighed, pressing his face into his pillow and wishing he had the strength to hang himself with the bedsheets. He had neatly crushed Sherlock the night before with his careless rant, and here he was, feeling sorry for himself. And Sherlock, who had every right to be hurt, was doing his best to be considerate of John's feelings.

He would have welcomed death just then.

Instead, he levered himself up and shuffled to the bathroom, replying to Sherlock's text absently as he brushed his teeth. It took at least fifteen minutes longer than usual to make himself presentable, but he did it, and when he shut the front door of 221B Baker Street and hailed a taxi, John felt just the tiniest bit of accomplishment.

His mission wasn't particularly dangerous, but it was exhaustive and time-consuming, and it was made all the more complicated by his marked ignorance of the subject. It was dark by the time he returned home, lugging his packages awkwardly up the stairs and bidding a breathless 'good evening' to Mrs. Hudson.

His next mission was the presentation. He was tempted to just leave the items unwrapped and on display, but the more mischievous part of him wanted to watch Sherlock open them himself. John wondered what the last present Sherlock had gotten had been, and who had given it. He hoped the detective accepted it; it was the best apology he could come up with on such short notice. Still, he struggled to tamp down his nerves as he wrapped the packages in bright paper. As an afterthought, he added a curly bow to the largest one.

Dinner was much simpler - beef stroganoff with actual beef. He had checked twice, reassuring himself that yes, that was the color of beef, not pork. Sherlock had picked up fresh thyme when he last went to the store, which made John smile. He knew the detective would never admit it, but he had learned a few things from _QI_. Ever since they'd watched the Eating episode, Sherlock had been bringing home fresh thyme and had started a series of rhubarb experiments in one of the cupboards. John had let him know that, as his doctor, he would not allow any experiments on the effects of eating only rabbit on the human body, and Sherlock had pouted mightily before complying and allowing John to spoon vegetables onto his plate.

Adding the thyme, John smiled when he heard light footsteps on the stairs, right when he'd known they would come. In Sherlock-ese, 'until late' meant 'after office hours', and the offer to pick up dinner meant 'before nine'. Usually, the combination meant 'between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty', except for one notable occasion where it meant 'ten at night'. Sherlock had been bewildered when he'd arrived home to see Lestrade and John preparing to scour the city for him, and bemused when John explained the reasoning behind it.

Today was not another exception, and Sherlock bounded through the door at eight-twenty-four, shedding his coat and shouting for John.

"Two arsenic poisonings, John! The company is recalling all of its products, just in case the workers contaminated them, the fools."

John smiled as he leaned against the kitchen doorjamb, arms crossed and eyes tracking Sherlock as he flounced (there really was no other word for it) to the couch and prepared to flop down onto it. His usual dramatics were cut short when he caught sight of the small stack of parcels sitting on the coffee table, the glittery, kitten-covered paper standing out remarkably.

"John, what is all this?"

"Presents, Sherlock," John explained. Then, because he wasn't always a nice person, he added, "_Obviously_."

"Who is giving you presents," Sherlock queried, looking up at John with a pout.

Raising one eyebrow, John tilted his head to the side and waited for Sherlock's giant intellect to catch up with his inability to understand interpersonal relationships.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "No, you would have opened them, surely. They were left by the couch because you know that's where I sit. These are for me."

John let the 'obviously' go unsaid this time.

"They're...from you?"

Feeling his ears go warm, John cleared his throat and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Well, yes. I mean, I was a bastard to you last night, so I thought I should...I don't know. Apologize, I guess."

Sherlock stared at him as though he'd grown an extra arm and was using it to stab himself with. Then, lowering himself carefully onto the couch, he reached for the first package tentatively, pulling it into his lap and blinking at it with a dazed expression.

It was excruciating, watching Sherlock slowly unwrap each gift, taking care to preserve the paper as much as possible (and wrinking his nose at the glitter that stuck to his fingers). He would look at each item, carefully blank, for a few minutes. Then he would set it back on the table, spacing his loot out meticulously, fold the paper into a small square to be set on the couch beside him, and reach for the next gift.

John bit his lip, heart hammering as, one-by-one, his carefully selected presents were evaluated and judged worthy.

The CDs were first, a pair of neo-classical albums, and one by Franz Ferdinand. He had lost track of how many songs he had sampled searching for something he thought Sherlock would enjoy. It had occurred to him that he had little idea of what Sherlock liked beyond classical. The man hadn't said much about John's eclectic collection (mostly dominated by 70s and 80s rock, true), but he'd never shown a preference, either.

Next was a new set of flasks, beakers, and test tubes to replace the ones that had been damaged when their dining set had gone up in flames. John had a feeling that the set that was "on loan" from Bart's wasn't exactly given voluntarily, but he hadn't said anything. Now, at least, he could return them. He could only imagine what Sherlock had said to Molly to get her to smuggle them out for him.

The third thing Sherlock unwrapped was a kit of strings, rosin, and wood polish. He stared at them for along time, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he thought. Then, when he'd set them down and folded the paper, he turned his gaze to the large package.

John fidgeted. He had taken a long time to pick it out, getting advice from as many experts as he could track down in the time he had, testing each (to the amusement of said experts), inspecting every inch before he'd been satisfied. If Sherlock didn't like it, John wasn't sure what he'd do.

The detective pulled the present into his lap with hands that shook, his lips parted and cheeks flushed. John knew he'd deduced what was beneath the fuzzy kittens and floppy bow, had known that he would from the start. He watched as Sherlock tore at the paper, impatient when his movements had previously been slow and measured. He shoved the paper off his lap and gaped at the item he held.

The case was black, rectangular, and sturdy enough to stand up to any amount of falling bee books. The inside was lined in red velvet, and it had places for rosin, spare strings, polish, and spare bow hair (something that just sounded _weird_ to John). The doctor had been assured that it would outlive the owner. He hadn't been thrilled with that thought, but had bought the thing anyway.

The bow itself was a sturdy, German-made thing. It was silver-mounted, which John didn't get, but he thought it was notable, since it was advertised thusly. The man who had sold it to him had assured him that it was a hardy accessory that produced a warm, round tone. He didn't know much about such things, but everyone around him had been nodding with satisfaction. He took that to be either a good thing, or a well-orchestrated sales technique.

And nestled in it's own special compartment in the middle, gleaming golden-brown, was a violin.

It wasn't a rare violin, or one of those insanely-priced, two-hundred-year-old pieces that John had gaped at. It wasn't a cheap instrument, either, costing him pretty much his entire savings. Granted, that wasn't much, but it had felt a bit reckless at the time.

Now, seeing the look on Sherlock's face, it was definitely worth it.

"John," his flatmate breathed, trembling fingers tracing the f-holes, "this is..."

Moving to the couch, John crouched down and smiled up at Sherlock. His flatmate had abandoned all efforts to control his expression, and was biting his lip tentatively. His cheeks were pink, something John found endlessly alluring, and he was nearly overcome by the urge to brush his own fingers over Sherlock's cheekbones to feel the warmth.

He settled for rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and trying to explain.

"I don't know much about violins," he started, "but everyone I talked to said this one was exceptional. It's not fancy or anything, but it has a good sound, whatever that means. And I know I couldn't fix the old violin, or even if it could be fixed, and I felt bad that I couldn't even make you feel better, so I thought I'd...y'know..."

He chanced a glance to see Sherlock looking at him now, the same stunned, disbelieving expression on his face. "Er...it should be okay, right? I mean, to play? I don't..." John cleared his throat, tugging on a loose bit of yarn on the hem of his jumper. "I don't know much about violins," he ended lamely, knowing his ears were bright red and wishing Sherlock would just say something, anything, so they could put it behind them and have dinner and squabble like they always did.

The violin case clicked closed, and Sherlock set it to the side, squares of glittery wrapping paper crinkling under its weight. He stood, holding out a hand to John, and smiled.

"It will suffice. Is that stroganoff I smell?"

John let out a breath, allowing Sherlock to pull him upright and following him into the kitchen. Sometimes, his friend knew exactly what to say to make everything okay again.

**As we ate dinner, bickering like we normally did, I felt like that precipice was as close as it had ever been. I knew that if the opportunity came to take that first step over the edge again, I wouldn't screw it up. I could only hope that Sherlock would take the step with me. Oddly enough, the one to give me the push I needed was the last person I had ever thought would want to help me. Regardless, I was about to get a visit from Harry, whether I liked it or not...**

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To Be Continued...

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A/N - O_O

A chapter? Holy crap! And here I was, thinking it would never happen.

I have no idea if I like this chapter or hate it. I have no idea if it's even acceptable. It just kind of happened to me, which is a little odd, considering how very planned-out this fic has been so far.

The thing about the meat identification SNAFU is based on real-life events. Names have been changed to protect the absentminded.

A special thank-you to Bloodpage-Alchemist, who pointed out that 'thank you' and 'thank-you' are two different things. So, thank you. Extensive research was done to ensure that the appropriate version was used. =3 Good looking out, dear reader. You get a cookie.

This page was embarrassing and awkward to write, and I can only blame John for being embarrassed and awkward in it. I'm very attached to him by now, and it seems that his pain is now my pain, because I find myself being a little embarrassed for him. In my own fic. Which I am writing.

I need professional help, apparently.

I apologize if the beginning of this chapter was too crude. Or not crude enough. I'm trying to keep this fic...tasteful is the wrong word, considering my plans for the future, but John uses a lot of rude words when he's caught doing naughty things with his phone. Apparently. Be warned, though, because there will be explicit sexy times in later chapters.

I also apologize for any phone fetishes this chapter inspires. I certainly have no plans of naming mine. (insert shifty look here)

To anyone who has noticed that I always seem to give a different color for Sherlock's eyes, blame Mr. Cumberbatch and his unnatural oculars. Really, what color _are_ they? Has anyone peeked at his driver's license lately? If so, leave a note!

SHAMELESS PLUG! - I have written another one-shot about the whole 'Sherlock's presumed dead for three years, oh noez, poor John, whatever will he do?' storyline. It's not angsty. Not really, anyway. Angsty is so last week. =3 It's called _Lorem Corde Meo_, is SOS compatible but not necessarily related, and you can find it in my profile.

Review! It makes John lust after Sherlock even more!

Songs for this chapter: 'No You Girls' (Franz Ferdinand) and 'Truth Or Dare' (Emily Osment).

Peace.

Akiko


	10. Sister Act

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Nine: Sister Act

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**I love my sister. Really. She and I have never gotten along, and the story behind that is complicated and a bit childish, but we still love each other. That's what I told myself, anyway, when she turned up on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. She said she'd heard I was 'shacked up' with some bloke, and that she was just stopping by to 'check up on her baby brother'. I didn't believe her for a second, and as it turned out, I was right...|**

"So."

Harry ignored his attempt at initiating conversation, poking around the living room curiously and cautiously. She had already gotten something of a shock when she had barged into their home and gone straight for the fridge to swipe a drink. Apparently, the sight of pickled tongues in a jar was an unsettling one. John, for his part, maintained that it could have been much worse.

She had thus far avoided going anywhere near Mort, which amused John to no end. Perhaps they could set him up outside the flat - he would never have to see Harry again.

_She's your sister_, he thought a bit guiltily. _You can't think that about your sister, even if just being in the same room makes you want to claw your own face off._

It was a familiar feeling. He'd been doing this odd dance of 'I love you because I have to, but when I strangle you it'll be because I want to' with Harry since they were ten and twelve respectively, about the time their parents had decided that Harry was their own personal gift from God.

Not that John was bitter.

"You never could keep a place clean, could you, baby brother?"

John grit his teeth. He wanted to snark back, really, but she was his sister. She'd wanted to reconcile before he'd been shipped abroad, and he'd frozen her out. If she wanted to do the sisterly thing now, after so many years of being decidedly _un_-sisterly, the least he could do was let her. The problem was, John wasn't so certain she really wanted to smooth over their relationship. He would give her the benefit of the doubt, but if he found out she'd simply been evicted again and needed a place to stay, he wouldn't be in the least surprised.

"It's clean enough," he replied neutrally. Sitting in his favorite armchair, he leaned back, fingers tapping on the arms as he avoided Harry's gaze. "No one's been buried beneath falling mountains of refuse yet, anyway."

To her credit, Harry's laugh didn't sound nearly as fake as John expected it to.

The silence that ensued would have been a very awkward one had Sherlock not chosen that moment to thunder up the stairs and burst in dramatically. At times, John could almost hear a trumpeting fanfare, and he could definitely imagine a spotlight snapping on and a crowd cheering whenever Sherlock made such an entrance.

_Always so theatrical, that man_, John thought fondly.

Sherlock was tossing his coat, scarf, and gloves about, which struck John as very odd. The consulting detective was always meticulous with his clothing, a compulsion that never seemed to strike him in any other area of his life except for The Work.

He had little time to think on it, though, because Sherlock was lunging forward and grabbing John by the wrist, tugging him along into the kitchen.

"You'll never guess what turned up in Mr. Goringe's postmortem tox screen, John!"

"Probably not," John replied calmly.

"Kavain! Almost obscene levels! Isn't it fantastic?" Sherlock clapped his hands, smiling gleefully, like a child that's just gotten a pony for Christmas. "Just marvelous!"

"I'm thrilled." John waited for a beat, raising an eyebrow as he and Sherlock stared at each other. "Er...what is kavain?"

"Oh, come on, John, you're a doctor," Sherlock said with a huff, flinging his arms out and nearly backhanding Harry, who had strayed too close to the hazard that was Sherlock on a roll.

John rolled his eyes, ignoring Harry's indignant squawk. "Am I allowed to sneer at you when you state the obvious, or do you have a monopoly on all statement-of-the-obvious sneerage?"

Pausing as he opened his mouth to reply, Sherlock's brow furrowed and he studied John closely. "You're cattier than usual, John, what's wrong?"

"Absolutely nothing. I'm fine. We're all fine, aren't we, Harry?"

Sherlock's gimlet gaze turned on John's sister, who was looking more and more unsettled by the second. He scrutinized her, looking for all the world like he'd only just noticed her. John was well aware that Sherlock had not only noticed her before he'd even entered the apartment, but had probably deduced why she was there, how long she was staying, and what she'd had for breakfast shortly after his entrance.

After a couple of beats, Sherlock tilted his head and said, "Congratulations on being two months sober. I expect your new girlfriend is delighted, although I would suggest you find a woman with better taste in perfume if you're so allergic. Oh," he added as he turned his back on John's bewildered sister, "and do try not to leave clumps of hair in the shower like you do at home - it's unhygenic."

John wanted to laugh at Harry's scandalized expression, and he wanted to hug Sherlock even more; the doctor honestly felt that he'd never adored Sherlock more than he did just then. Sadly, partly because he really was trying to patch things up with Harry, but mostly because it wouldn't do to let Sherlock think being tactless towards strangers was acceptable, John huffed loudly.

"Can you not be rude to people you've only just met? Especially when I happen to be related to them?"

"I fail to see what sharing genetic markers has to do with how I approach strangers, John," Sherlock muttered distractedly as he pulled out a tin of dried plant matter. "Do you remember Wilma Redding?"

"The government lady who was murdered with tea," John replied, moving to lean against the sink.

"Kava kava tea, John," the detective elaborated, shoving the tin under John's nose and smiling at him in a way that made John's stomach flip. "Which leaves traces of kavain in the body after ingestion. Don't you see?"

Pushing the tin away and raising one eyebrow, John shook his head. "No, I don't. Unless you mean the odd coincidence that two people were drinking calming tea when they were killed."

"Don't be dull, John, you're better than that," Sherlock snapped. "Coincidences don't exist."

John opened his mouth to reply in a dry, witty manner like he always did, but Harry stepped between them and jabbed Sherlock in the chest with one finger. "Excuse me," she snapped, "but who the hell do you think you are to talk to me like that?"

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, glancing over at John, who could only shake his head and shrug helplessly.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," he replied, turning back to Harry, "the world's only consulting detective, although that's who I _know_ I am, not who I _think_ I am, and I have no reason to speak to you in any other manner, as you are in no way remarkable save for your relationship with John. As that is a precarious bond and has been strained for some time, I see no reason why I should extend any of the respect I have for your brother towards you. I believe I have already stated as much, and I will not do so again - I hate repeating myself. Now do the collective IQ of the world at large a favor and be quiet."

As Harry sputtered furiously, John amended his earlier thought - this was the most he'd ever adored Sherlock. It helped that his insides were all warm and happy-bubbly at Sherlock's admission of respect. To his credit, John did not melt into a puddle of smitten goo at Sherlock's feet. He did grin like the besotted fool that he was, though, and he prayed that Harry hadn't caught it. Her visit was going to be taxing enough without adding her gloating into the mix.

The next week (_Oh, God, isn't she ever going to leave? I know she's my sister, but I swear, I'm going to push her out of the window if she doesn't leave!_) was just as infuriating and tiring as John had expected it to be. Harry spent each excruciating moment criticizing everything she could think of.

"Christ, John, could you be any more of an old man?"

_Probably_, John thought, but he didn't say anything.

"That's the most hideous jumper I've ever seen you wear, and that's saying something."

_You have the most hideous face I've ever seen anyone wear, and that's saying something,_ John wanted to reply, but he didn't.

"Really, little brother? You listen to this trash?"

_You must mean the garbage that's constantly spewing from your mouth,_ was John's silent rebuttal.

"You always make the tea too strong; compensating for something much?"

_No, Harry, it's kava kava tea, and I'm hoping that if I drink enough of it, it'll render me mercifully dead,_ he spat at her in his head. Still, he didn't say anything.

Every little thing she could possibly find to pick at, she did. John, who was used to this sort of thing from her, sucked it up, smooshed all his ugly thoughts into the steel box in his brain with all his other ugly thoughts, and ate more ice cream than perhaps he should have.

He was a doctor, after all.

On the seventh day of Harry's visit, though, the Ugly Box in John's head was too full to squash anything else in, and he was starting to worry that the lid might pop open and all the black and horrible feelings would come bursting out. It was no surprise, therefore, that things were about to come to a head.

John had sprung for Chinese because he didn't trust himself with a cast-iron skillet while Harry was around, and Sherlock was later than usual. The older man wasn't too worried, since Sherlock had texted him saying that he was detained at Scotland Yard (John wasn't sure if he meant that he was busy or that he'd been arrested, but he was so far past caring at that point, and he hadn't bought a return ticket), but Harry was fuming.

"You'd think he could at least be on time for dinner," she snorted, digging into her orange chicken while John relocated a jar of dead whip scorpions to the designated Sherlock Shelf. He wasn't thrilled about them, but at least it was a clear container this time. He had not been too pleased when he'd opened what he thought was a tin of Quality Street, only to find it was a tin of dead grass snakes. He wasn't sure if Sherlock knew it was illegal to harm grass snakes in Britain, but he figured that in cases like these, plausible deniability was his friend.

He had taken to outright ignoring Harry, which had the added benefit of pissing her off royally. Sherlock, however, delighted in taking every opportunity to needle Harry; he deduced her affair with a coworker, revealed the obsessive eBay habit that she indulged in to compensate for the teetotaling, even commented on an allergic rash she had on her inner thighs. John was just thankful he didn't say anything about how Harry might have gotten a rash there. Love her, hate her, she was still his sister, and that was a creepy place in his mind that he didn't want to venture into.

Had John not been so familiar with Sherlock's ways, he would never have noticed that the younger man's treatment of Harry was, in fact, very different from the way he treated most people, and not in a nice way. It was on par with the vicious intensity with which the detective tore into Sally or Anderson - a single-minded dedication to crushing the spirit, the mental equivalent of a knee to the groin. Or whatever the female version would be.

Unlike his attitude towards the latter two idiots, however, Sherlock was not lashing out at Harry to defend himself. For all her grumbling and glaring, Harry had seemed reluctant to attack Sherlock. John guessed that the verbal dressing-down she'd gotten at that first meeting had made her wary of poking that particular sleeping dragon. No, Sherlock was baring his fangs in John's defense, which almost made putting up with the woman worth it.

Almost.

Harry was still muttering under her breath when the man in question barged into the flat, shouting for John to clear space in the freezer for brain matter. Harry took one look at the glass jar full of pieces of a human brain suspended in what looked like lemon jelly and slammed her soda down on the table.

"God, could you be any more of a freak?"

The detective didn't get a chance to reply, because a red haze filled John's vision as his Ugly Box burst open, and he was striding across the kitchen and yanking Harry's chair back from the table so hard he nearly tipped it backwards. Towering over her, he held her shocked gaze and growled.

"Get. Out," he snarled, ignoring Sherlock's sharp intake of breath. All he could focus on was Harry.

_How dare she? How __**dare**__ she?_

"You stupid woman," John hissed. "How dare you speak to Sherlock like that?" When Harry opened her mouth to reply, John slammed one hand down on the table, rattling glasses and sending a carton of dim sum toppling onto the floor. "Shut up. Shut the _fuck_ up. I've put up with your mouth for a week, Harriet. I've tried, really tried, to let it go, but you just can't let up, can you? Well you can insult me all you like - pick on my clothes, my job, my height, whatever the hell you want, because I probably deserve it - but you _will not_ come into my home and insult my flatmate. I _will not_ allow it. Now take your attitude and your opinions and get the _fuck out of my flat!_"

To her credit, Harry didn't flinch away or scurry out of the room. He hadn't expected her to. He knew he could be incredibly intimidating when he set his mind to it, but not with Harry. She was as stubborn as he was with a proud streak a mile wide, and she wasn't about to leave without making it perfectly clear that it was on her terms.

"Fine," she snapped, leaning back and crossing her arms challengingly, "I'll leave when your freak boyfriend apologizes for being such a creepy, arrogant twat."

In a flurry of motion, John grabbed Harry by the wrist and hauled her out of the chair, dragging her towards the door. "_OUT!_"

"John-"

Paying Sherlock no mind, John led Harry down the stairs, past a dismayed Mrs. Hudson, and shoved her out the door. He took great delight in slamming it in her face as she turned to speak.

John took the stairs two at a time and started combing the flat with frenzied motions, Sherlock trailing behind him listlessly. As he snatched up all of Harry's belongings, scattered about as if she owned the place, he muttered to himself angrily.

"Who does she think she is? Never, ever going to...can't believe she would...can definitely believe she would...the absolute _nerve_ of her..."

"John-"

When he'd stuffed Harry's duffle with all her stray possessions, John marched to the window, opened it, heaved the bag out, and slammed the window shut with an almighty bang that seemed to echo for eternity.

He should have felt bad. He'd just thrown his sister out on the street, literally. And for what, a single snide remark about his flatmate? His flatmate, who had spent probably his entire life being called a freak, and never seemed to notice or care?

John grit his teeth, chest heaving as he drew in great gasps of air as if to cool his blood. He remembered the look on Sherlock's face when that fool of a banker spouted abuse at the man laughingly, as though smiling when you professed your disdain of someone would make it okay. There had been a moment where Sherlock had practically wilted, curling in on himself and glancing away, so very vulnerable that it had taken a great deal of restraint not to simply haul Sebastian across the desk and throw him out a window.

Sherlock was saying his name again, softly, and John blinked up at him wearily. "Something wrong?"

Jaw working as his mouth gaped open and snapped shut, Sherlock looked to be at a loss for words. "John," he started to say again, hesitating, "you...didn't have to..."

"Oh, that." John shrugged as though it had been nothing special, but his wry grin said otherwise. "She's been getting on my nerves for ages."

"But...John, she's your sister. I may not know much about normal familial relationships, but..."

"Eh," John waved one hand distractedly. "I'll get her something nice for Christmas and we'll be...well, less angry. It's fine. Er..." Licking his lips, he gave Sherlock a once-over. "Are you okay?"

There was a long pause wherein Sherlock studied John as though he'd never seen him before, and every particle of John's body felt suddenly electrified at the sensation of having Sherlock's undivided attention.

Then Sherlock reached out, grabbed John's face between his hands, and crushed their lips together with a sigh.

Most likely, the kiss only lasted for seconds. John couldn't be certain, because his every last neuron went into nuclear meltdown the moment his mouth met Sherlock's. It could have gone on for years, and it still wouldn't have been enough, that much John was sure of.

He had given a lot of thought to what his first kiss with Sherlock would be like - not that he'd ever expected a first kiss, or any kind of kiss, but Sherlock had a way of making him drift into soppy, harlequin-romance-novel daydreams. He had imagined being overcome with lust and dragging Sherlock into the bedroom. He had imagined Sherlock rejecting him and ordering him to move out. He had even, depressingly, imagined that their first kiss would be as Sherlock died in his arms, which had always seemed more likely whenever Sherlock was on a case.

John, it turned out, did not have an imagination vivid enough to do the reality of kissing Sherlock justice. It was so very warm, and so very chaste, and the only thing John had time to think before it was over was that Sherlock must have had coffee at Scotland Yard, because he tasted of coffee, and John had never loved the taste of coffee more than he did in that moment.

And the it was over, and John's insides were wonderfully warm and his face where Sherlock's hands had been were cold as the detective pulled them away, and his lips tingled beautifully.

Letting his eyes flutter open, John swallowed hard and resisted the urge to either touch his lips or yank Sherlock in for another taste.

"Was that right," Sherlock asked, and John must have imagined the breathlessness, because his flatmate looked as calm and composed as ever when they locked gazes.

John swallowed again. "S-sorry?"

"Gratitude is expressed through intimate contact between people who care for each other. I wanted to...well," he floundered, brow furrowing as he once again scrambled for the right words, "I am touched that you were willing to defend me at the risk of irreperably damaging your relationship with your sister, John. I simply wished to express my thanks."

If the floor beneath John's feet had caved in and sent him tumbling to his death right at that moment, John would have welcomed it. He felt his face heat up and his left hand twitched twice as mortification flooded him. He wanted to scream, to curl into a ball and cry, to beg Sherlock to stop jerking him around before he broke John entirely.

Instead, he said, "Oh. That's...you're welcome."

And then he went to the kitchen to clean up the spilled takeaway and put the kettle on for tea.

Much later that night, after John had slipped between his sheets numbly and drifted into uneasy dreams, his mind still not quite engaged, he was awoken very abruptly by Sherlock shouting his name hysterically and pouncing on him. It was a good job Sherlock's cry had jolted him awake, because half-asleep John would undoubtedly have thrown anyone jumping on him across the room.

"John, John, John, wake up, wake up, John, wake up, John, John, John-"

"What, Sherlock," he groaned, reaching up to scrub at his face with both hands. "What is it? If you've melted the television again, you're paying for a new one this time."

"I'm Harry, John!"

John let that sink in, considering it carefully before he decided that, no, it wasn't his sleepy brain, that definitely hadn't made sense.

"Um, could you elaborate? Preferably after you've stopped kneeling on my liver?"

"Don't be dull, John, your liver is much higher than-"

"_Sherlock_."

"Right, sorry." The lanky man rolled off of John, sitting cross-legged with his back against the wall as John wearily pulled himself upright.

"Okay. Let's try this again."

"John, I've been thinking-"

John rolled his eyes. "You never _stop_ thinking."

"-and it's occured to me that I'm as bad as your sister," Sherlock finished, seemingly unaware that John had even spoken. Then, before John could form a reply, he plowed on. "I take you for granted John. I always assumed that you'd be beside me always, but I never take your feelings into account. I'm selfish, John, I know that, I've always known that, but I don't mean to be. Not with you. You're my friend, aren't you, John? I should be more considerate, less hurtful and careless with your feelings, and I try, really, I do, but it's hard, and I'm terrible at this whole caring business. I'm sorry, John. Honestly."

John flopped back onto his pillow and covered his face with his hands. "I swear to God, Sherlock," he moaned against his palms, "you're going to be the death of me."

"I-"

"Oh, shut up," he said fondly, peering at his best friend through his fingers. This constant up-and-down, back-and-forth had his thoughts in knots, but damned if he didn't love every second of it. "You're nothing like Harry, Sherlock. You don't mean to be cruel or whatever. You're just...you. And that's fine," he continued hurriedly at Sherlock's dismayed expression. "It's all fine, Sherlock. I know you, and I know that you care, and that's enough, okay? Just...stop worrying about it."

Looking unconvinced, Sherlock gnawed on his bottom lip and sighed through his nose. Groaning again, John sat back up.

"Look," he began, not really wanting to get into this, but needing to reassure Sherlock so the man would leave him in peace, "Harry and I have always been at odds, ever since were were kids. Growing up, you wouldn't have recognized us. I was such a wild kid, always running about, making trouble. Harry was the good daughter, perfect marks in school and polite and athletic. She was everything my parents ever wanted in a child, and I was everything they dreaded. She would bring home swim meet trophies, I'd bring home black eyes. She'd volunteer at a homeless shelter, I'd spend my summers racing cars of dubious origin."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's face, his only outward sign of acknowledgement.

"When we were...God, I was sixteen. It seems so long ago. Harry had turned eighteen, and my parents were so proud of her - valedictorian, university, charming boyfriend. Then one day she showed up to Christmas dinner drunk with a pierced tongue and a girlfriend with green hair. The whole evening was like a slow-motion train wreck.

"To make a long story...well, less long, Harry was suddenly the black sheep in the family, and it was all up to me to make my parents proud." John let his head thud against the headboard, staring at the wall blindly, remembering days of arguments and crying from his mother and realizing that if he didn't shape up his parents would never be able to hold their heads up again. "I hated the thought of living the sort of bland, perfect life they imagined for me, but I hated the thought of breaking their hearts even more. So I gave up the racing, scrubbed the black nail polish off, traded in my band shirts for jumpers, and went about creating the son they wanted. Went to uni, went to medical school, dated nice girls. When that got to be so dull I thought I'd kill myself, I joined up and skipped off to the Middle East to get shot at, ended up getting shot. The rest you know."

He sighed, reaching up to knead his shoulder lightly before he continued.

"Harry always hated me when we were young. Looking back, I know it was because she wanted the freedom I had, with no expectations or pressure to be the best, to be perfect. And I hated her because everything seemed to come so easily to her, even the adoration of our parents. And then, later, she hated me for taking her place as the family's favorite child. She still hates me," he finished bitterly, the taste of discontentment sharp and unwelcome in his mouth.

"And that's why you put up with her attitude this week," Sherlock said softly, slowly rubbing the hem of his dressing gown between his fingers as he peered at John curiously through the gloom. "You feel guilty, for allowing your parents to pressure her, and then for allowing them to reject her when she acted out. You believe that if you had been a better son, they might not have been so focused on her success that they drove her to rebellion."

"Right on all counts," John replied tiredly, pressing the heel of his hand against his shoulder and allowing the dull ache to soothe his heart.

"Then why do you put up with me?"

Pausing, John squinted, trying to see Sherlock's expression in the dark. All he could really make out was the extraordinary gemstone color of Sherlock's eyes, and he spoke entirely honestly.

"Because I like you," he said.

"Oh."

And there was really nothing more to say.

**Quite honestly, that day was one of the most intense emotional rollercoasters I had ever been on. I wasn't sure how much more of the uncertainty and intensity I could take before I broke. Fortunately, I didn't have to wait to find out, and I'm still not sure if I should blame Lestrade, Mycroft, or Mrs. Hudson. Or perhaps I should thank them, because if it weren't for their admittedly misguided help, I might have remained adrift in ambiguity forever...**

:::

To Be Continued...

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A/N - Agh! OMG! *hyperventilates*

Nine Is Fine! =D Sorry, a little Rah-Rah Cheer was needed just now.

I can't believe I actually finished this chapter. Now there's only one more to go! Oh. Em. Gee. I might actually finish this without all of my hair going gray! Which is great, because I couldn't pull it off as well as Rupert Graves. I might be biased tho, because he's just darling, innee?

I have to say, my reviewers for this story are absolutely full of win. You guys are so very amazing, and I'm honored that you feel my humble tale of hot chocolate and fetal pigs is worth noticing. Your kind words and helpful critiques give me the strength to muddle on, and I most emphatically thank you all. *hugs*

On another note, there is a CafePress shop up called The Brain Attic (link will be posted in my profile). My sister (Plus2-minus1-brilliance) and I put it up, and there is a section just for Team Shwatsonlock merchandise of my own design. Granted, there's just the one design up for now, but it's a nice one, and I'm terribly proud of it. Pop in and take a look...and maybe buy something? =3 Teehee.

Review! I need the extra push to cross the finish line!

Songs for this chapter: 'The Things You Do' (Bowling For Soup) and 'Moves Like Jagger' (Maroon 5).

Peace.

Akiko


	11. BoysFriend

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Chapter Ten: Boys-Friend

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**Everything I've explained in this entry brings us to yesterday, September the sixth, which will definitely be remembered as the day I valiantly resisted strangling several persons that I had become close to in a fit of insanity. Insanity that they had inspired. Don't get me wrong, I love Sherlock like mad, but sometimes I wish he didn't make it his lifelong goal to drive me absolutely round the bend...|**

It was darker than he'd expected it to be when he slipped through the second floor window of the abandoned warehouse. Inky shadows seemed to cling to him as he moved, knowing exactly where he needed to go.

John Watson did not take the abduction of Sherlock Holmes lightly. Not ever. When he located his errant beloved, he would make damn sure that anyone in the general vicinity would know suffering. Oh, yes. He would make them _pay_.

He tried to delve further into the darkness, but the shadows were clinging tighter. They were wrapped about his arms and legs and chest, grasping and sticking like spiderwebs as he struggled against them. Again and again, he slashed at them with his claws, but they only wound about him even further.

"John..." a voice called faintly. Inexorably drawn towards the sound, John felt his heart begin to race, and he struggled against his bonds fruitlessly. He knew that voice.

"John..."

"John..."

"John..."

Confused, John twisted this way and that. It was as though Sherlock's voice was coming from every direction at once, and it was growing louder and more frantic by the second.

"John. John. John!"

Gasping, John sat up in bed. His bedclothes were twisted around him, sweat making his shirt stick to him uncomfortably. He wiped his forhead with the back of one hand, then paused and drew it away.

It was sticky with blood.

Blood was _everywhere_, soaking through his shirt, staining the sheets, oozing between his toes.

John breathed through his nose, mind whirling. _How? Who? Oh, god, who did I kill?_

Two eyes stared at him from the other side of the bed. Sherlock was sitting there still, legs crossed, leaning back against the wall. Moonlight that was somehow crimson reflected off of ebony curls and a chalky-pale face. Too pale, too gray, too dead, and John realized that it wasn't the moonlight, it was blood that coated Sherlock head to toe, dripping from his sodden curls, spurting from his slit throat in a sickening splash.

Choking on panic, John tried to wriggle his way out of bed, only to tumble to the floor in a heap when the sheets tightened around his ankles. He wrestled with the linens, but they only grew tighter and tighter, and the blood was pooling around him, getting in his nose and mouth.

Sherlock's head lolled, his dead eyes staring as his mouth moved. Slowly, his pale hands twitched and crept across the mattress, fingers grasping in jerking, strange motions as the corpse of the man he loved dragged itself closer, jaw working as it spoke.

"John!"

Gasping, John sat up in bed. Sherlock peered at him through the darkness of the room, still sitting crosslegged beside him in the bed. John whimpered, rubbing his hands together furiously when he realized that his clammy palms still felt like they were dripping blood.

"Are you feeling well, John?"

"Er..." Blinking, John gazed up at his flatmate. "Well. Very well. Is the tea ready?"

"The tea has been ready, John," Sherlock sneered, tossing his flowing, copper-blonde locks over his shoulder. "You were just not ready to drink it."

"I want to drink tea, Sherlock. With you."

"I have drunk my tea, John, John, John. I have drunk my tea, and Anderson has drunk his tea, and we have drunk our tea, because we were ready when you were not."

Fury filled John. He wanted to leap up and tear off Sherlock's tiara and draw it into his own heart, but the blankets held fast around his waist and he couldn't move. So he snapped his teeth and clawed at the air as he shouted. "Anderson! Anderson cannot have tea with you, Sherlock! Tea is ours! Ours is the tea, and the scones, and the doilies. Ours is the tea, the tea is ours! The tea is us! We are ready to be drunk together, Sherlock!"

Sherlock stood and flounced from the room, pausing only to whack John on the head with his scepter, his glittering silk skirts swishing about him and fluttering with butterflies and rose petals. "I was ready to be drunk, but you were not ready to drink! Too late, John! Too late! John. John. John!"

_"John_!"

John did not gasp. He did not sit up. The very first thing he did when he jerked awake was kick at the bedding until it tumbled to the floor in a heap and lie there, quivering and wishing he hadn't eaten ice cream before bed. He always had odd dreams when he ate ice cream before bed.

As his heart rate slowed and it became apparent that this was, in fact, reality, John moved to sit up.

He couldn't. Something was wrapped tight around him.

He didn't panic, though, because he could see very well that said something was a certain consulting detective, who had managed to wind all four limbs around John and was currently breathing softly on John's jugular. Soft curls, mussed adorably and not soaked in blood or adorned with a tiara, tickled his nose and stuck to his lips when he wet them.

And his bedmate was not asleep, it seemed, because his eyes were tracking over John's face, curious and guarded.

"You were dreaming," Sherlock said quietly, slowly and methodically unwinding himself from John. The smaller man told himself that he didn't miss the contact, not one bit.

Clearing his throat, John nodded. "Er, yeah. Sorry about that."

"You could hardly help it."

"I know, but-," levering himself up onto his elbows, John squinted at Sherlock blearily as he cut himself off. "Were you shouting my name while I was dreaming?"

The detective reclined on his side lazily, raising one eyebrow at John as the fingers of one hand tapped out Ravel's Piano Concerto for the Left Hand on John's shoulder. "No. Why would I do something so foolish," he murmured, seemingly focused on the chords he was playing.

"Right."

"You were shouting my name, though."

Mortification filled John. He wanted to laugh, or roll his eyes, something, anything to brush it off, but all he could do was draw in a shuddering breath. "Oh," he gasped, staring at the wall over Sherlock's head.

"Mmm. You kept calling my name. Then you were sobbing about blood. Then you shouted something about Anderson and tea." Sherlock glanced up from his concerto to quirk his lips at John. "I can only hope you dreamt up some insidious plot to boil Anderson in a giant teapot."

Suddenly John could breathe again, and he laughed. He laughed far too loudly, and may have snorted once or twice, and Sherlock was staring at him far too amusedly, but it felt _good_. He felt as though he hadn't really laughed in years. He laughed until tears were streaming down his cheeks, until his body was curled in on itself so tightly that he couldn't draw in a breath and he was shaking silently. He laughed until he couldn't laugh any more.

Gasping for air, John grinned at Sherlock. "Thank you," he said quietly, lightly, imagining the words floating across the inches that separated them and alighting in Sherlock's curls like fireflies.

Right. Definitely no more ice cream before bed.

Intrigued by the way his gratitude made Sherlock's face glow and his eyes crinkle at the corners, John said it again.

Then Sherlock leaned over and kissed him, and John was left feeling small and confused and tired again. He drew back slowly, hating the thrill he got when Sherlock tried to follow him, hating himself for loving the feel of his bottom lip slipping from between the detective's teeth. Stamping on the urge to lick his lips, John sighed and slipped out from under the covers, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes. He was terrified that if he did, he might cave and crawl back into bed and over Sherlock and beg for whatever kisses the man would give him. He couldn't do that, though. He was broken enough as it was.

"Sherlock...please stop doing this," he whispered, hands trembling. "It's not fair. I can't just let you take any more from me, not when you won't give anything back. And I don't want you to, not if you don't want to, and it's not _fair_. So please, stop."

There was a long silence, and John forced his eyes to meet Sherlock's. The detective was still lying on his side, rumpled bedding piled up around him, his expression inscrutable. There was another chilly pause, and then Sherlock was up and striding from the room.

"I'm sorry, John," he said airily, "but there seems to have been some sort of miscommunication. Rest assured," he added as he made for the front door, not even pausing to pick up his coat or scarf, "the situation will be rectified."

And then he left, slamming the door behind him, presumably to freeze to death, because it was three in the morning and he was only wearing a thin silk shirt and slacks. John was fairly certain the man was barefoot.

Nerves buzzing and tingling as though he'd been electrocuted, John shuffled about the flat. He started to make tea, but forgot to turn the kettle on when he decided to answer his E-mail instead. He stared at the blank screen of his laptop for a moment, finger resting lightly on the power button, when he realized he needed to have breakfast. He went back to the kitchen and peered into the fridge, only to forget why he was doing so. He slammed the door shut, staring at the appliance for a moment, before stumbling back to the sitting room and curling up on the couch.

He must have dozed off, because suddenly he was opening his eyes. His cell phone was ringing. Fumbling for it, John frowned at the display screen. The number was blocked. The only person he knew who called from a blocked number was Mycroft. Why would Mycroft be calling him?

Had something happened to Sherlock?

Swallowing against the panic rising in his throat, John brought the phone to his ear with a shaking hand.

"Hello?"

"Doctor John Watson," a voice rasped harshly.

"Who is this?"

"How much are you willing to sacrifice for Sherlock Holmes?" John's insides turned to ice, his breath freezing in his chest. "What?"

"I've been watching you, John," the voice breathed. John did not like the way it said his name, like an unwanted caress. He shuddered. "You are the one I need to have, the one who will complete my work."

"I don't...I don't understand. Who is this? What have you done with Sherlock?"

"Nothing, yet, dear John. I am The Hangman."

Tensing, John caught his breath and held it for a moment. He knew that moniker - it was the name the press had given to a serial murderer who had operated back in the eighties. He had murdered six men, all around John's age, all homosexual, all small and blonde. They had been horribly tortured - fingers and toes removed, skin peeled away from their bodies in great pieces, disgusting words carved into them with red-hot implements. They had been hanged post-mortem, dangled from various public structures as though being put on display. An artist, showing his work, John had thought when Sherlock had shown him the cold case file.

Eyes slipping to stare at the evidence box, sticking out a bit in the stack between the man fished out from the Thames in 1995 and the serial arsons in the West End in 2002, John felt the bile rising in his throat. Some smart-assed Yarder had scrawled a hanged stick figure on the label, its little 'x' eyes searing themselves across John's brain. He had looked at all of the pictures, read the post-mortems. He could envision far too vividly what would happen to Sherlock if he didn't do something, quickly.

"I'm not terribly interested in your pretty-boy lover," The Hangman was saying derisively, as though he'd read John's mind and was terribly insulted by what he found. "I'm far more intrigued by you, doctor."

Of course. Between thirty and fifty years old, between 5'5" and 5'10", blonde. He fit the physical profile, and most people seemed to think that he and Sherlock were lovers, so that would mean he fit that, as well. He could attempt to convince the man that he wasn't actually in a relationship with a man, but he couldn't lie about being in love with one. It would make Sherlock expendable, in any case, and that was unacceptable.

"What do you want me to do?"

He was somewhat surprised at how steady his voice sounded, firm and unrelenting. He hadn't even been aware of making the decision to be tortured and killed to save Sherlock, but then, it hadn't been much of a decision. Sherlock would always and forever be more important to John than anything else. No matter what happened, what torments John suffered, Sherlock would always come first.

So he gathered up all the evidence that the psychopath on the other end of the line specified, showered and changed into slacks and a blue dress shirt as requested, and waited. He was to show up at the statue of Achilles in Hyde Park at seven pm.

"No earlier, dear John," the man drawled. "If you're there any earlier than seven, your pathetic lover will be killed. For every minute after seven, I will remove one finger."

Since it was barely noon when the call came, John had plenty of time to wander about the flat. He made a cup of tea, then sat down at the table with several sheets of paper and wrote letters. One for Harry, one for Lestrade, one for Sarah. Then, fingers shaking and tears threatening to spill from his eyes, he wrote a letter for Sherlock.

When he had finished, he sealed them in their envelopes and placed them beneath Mort. Reaching up, John brushed the dust from the skull's brow and straightened the hat delicately. "You'll keep and eye on him, won't you," John whispered, removing the peeling sticking plaster and rubbing a finger over the chip on Mort's zygoma.

Then he began to tidy the flat. He knew Sherlock wouldn't. As removed as the man tried to be, John knew Sherlock cared about him. He would be upset at John's death, even if only a little, and even more upset that the man got away with the evidence that would have helped Sherlock capture him. As he tidied, John smiled. He picked up bits of paper and recalled balling them up and tossing them at Sherlock's head while the man played his violin. He rearranged the throw pillows and thought of curling up with Sherlock to watch Hetty Wainthropp. He shuffled Sherlock's experiments onto the Sherlock Shelf, remembering the argument they'd had about putting rotting body parts next to the butter.

He made dinner for Sherlock, sandwiches, and wrapped them carefully to set them on the table. Sherlock would notice them, of course, and John could only hope that he would eat them, if only for John. As an afterthought, John pulled out another piece of paper and wrote a swift note to Mrs. Hudson, asking her to look after Sherlock and make sure he ate.

Going up to his room, John made the bed, allowing himself a moment to bask in the memory of Sherlock's body wrapped around his, Sherlock's lips against his. He moved over to the unpacked boxes in the corner and pulled out the unlabelled one from his Army days. Digging up a marker pen, he scrawled 'Open Me' on the side for Sherlock and set the box in the middle of his bed. They weren't the memories John wanted to delve into before he died, but he felt that someone should carry them.

Finally, it was time to go.

The taxi ride was somewhat calming for John. It reminded him of that first taxi ride with Sherlock to Brixton.

_"That...was...amazing."_

_"You think so?"_

More memories bubbled up after that one. Sherlock leading him over moonlit rooftops. Sherlock gazing at him fondly when he'd realized who had shot the cabbie. Eating cold Chinese with Sherlock while they tossed ideas back and forth. Sherlock curling up with his head on John's lap. Soft violin music to carry away John's nightmares. Sherlock's complete disregard for the feelings of the general public. Sherlock's regard for John's feelings.

These were the memories John wanted to carry with him to the grave. He wrapped himself in them, layer after layer, paper thin, until they formed the strongest, thickest armor imaginable. Slowly, carefully, John built up his defenses, certain that he could bear whatever The Hangman had in store for him, if only he could hold on to Sherlock until the end.

He had timed it as perfectly as he could, and was somewhat relieved when he reached the statue as his watch beeped.

Seven pm.

There was no one there.

John bit his lip, shifting the boxes in his arms awkwardly. "I'm here. It's seven. Don't tell me you made such a big deal about me being on time so you could make a dramatic entrance, I'll be quite put out."

"No dramatics, John," a familiar, smooth voice said softly.

John dropped the boxes as Sherlock stepped out from behind the statue. He looked much the same as he had when he left the flat that morning - dress slacks, purple silk shirt, and...oh, he'd dug up a pair of shoes, at least. He looked supremely unruffled, if a little flushed, and not at all like someone who had been held hostage by a homicidal maniac.

"Sherlock..." John narrowed his eyes, his hands clenching into fists. "Sherlock, so help me, if there isn't a crazed maniac in Hyde Park about to murder me in exchange for you, I will be _very angry_."

Blinking, Sherlock tilted his head in confusion. "Correct me if I'm wrong, John, but the absence of anyone out for your blood is, to most people, a _good_ thing."

John huffed. "Most people did not spend the last seven hours believing that they were going to be dead by day's end. Most people did not feel the need to write farewell letters to their loved ones. Most people, Sherlock, did not prepare themselves for certain, hideous torture. I am not most people, Sherlock. And I am _very angry_ with you," he finished, his voice shaking. He knew that when it hit him, really hit him, that this had been a set-up, he would probably be screaming and throwing things, but for now, he was content to watch Sherlock fidget uncomfortably in the face of John's ire.

"I...wasn't certain how to go about this," Sherlock admitted, mumbling reluctantly.

Rolling his eyes, John threw his hands into the air. "Most people, Sherlock, would just call or text someone if they want them to show up somewhere."

"I am not most people," Sherlock said, daring a smirk. Seeing that John was not amused, the detective cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back in as non-threatening a position as possible. "I had to be certain of it, John. I had to know."

"To know what," John said wearily. More experiments, more toying with John for the sake of discovery. "What is it that you couldn't just ask me?"

"I had to know what you would do."

John regarded Sherlock coolly, crossing his arms in his Supremely Unimpressed Immovable Drill Sergeant pose. "If you don't already know that I would suffer any fate for your sake, Sherlock Holmes, then you're even more of an unobservant idiot than I thought."

Breath hitching, Sherlock's lips parted slightly and his cheeks flushed even darker. He swallowed, mouth opening further to say something, and he stopped.

John waited patiently as Sherlock tried several times to form the words. He had promised himself that he would not let whatever this moment was pass him by, and as excruciating as it was, he was going to keep that promise. Even though the chances of Sherlock's next words being "while I'm flattered by your interest..." were high, he wouldn't deny his flatmate the chance to speak his piece.

No matter how painful that piece was going to be.

The actual words Sherlock spoke next were somewhat more startling.

"God _damn_ it," the detective growled, digging into his pocket for his cell phone. John felt a hysterical giggle rising in his throat.

They were on the verge of what was probably going to big the most major shift their relationship would ever suffer, for better or worse, and the man was taking a call. Typical Sherlock.

When he'd finished his texting, Sherlock didn't look back at John. He stared at the display screen as though he could force a response through sheer willpower.

John's phone chirped.

_He wouldn't_, John thought incredulously, pulling his phone out and pulling up the message. _He would text me from two fucking feet away. Christ, if he thought I was going to take his rejection that badly, he could have just left me a message at home._

He looked at Sherlock's number for a moment, thumb hovering over the message, before he took a deep breath and opened it.

He blinked.

**I love you. -SH**

After a long moment, he tapped out a response. With his other hand, John pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing exaspiratedly. He sent it, tucking his phone back in his pocket and glowering at Sherlock in utter irritation.

The man didn't even let the message chimes finish before he was reading the text. John could practically see the words flitting through his insufferable brain, their meaning sinking in slowly.

**I love you, too. Obviously. -JW**

Sherlock put his own phone away and stepped closer to John. Leaning down, he brushed his lips over John's lightly, before turning and walking away. "Hungry?"

Sighing again, John trotted after him, reaching out to grasp Sherlock's hand warmly as they left the park. "Starving. Chinese?"

"Sounds lovely."

**Maybe if we'd been more open and honest from the start, we wouldn't have spent the last two months dancing around each other like we did. If I had been perhaps a bit braver, and certainly a bit more patient, I would have spent those two months as Sherlock's lover, rather than his half-mad flatmate who pined after him like a fool. Then again, very little changed after that day. It was odd, really, how much it seemed to me like we had been together all along.**

**Posted 7 Sept 2011**

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The End?

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A/N - O_O

! OMGOMGOMG! Finally!

But wait, is that an epilogue I spy on the horizon? Why, it is! How wonderful! It might even explain how the whole hostage!Sherlock thing might be the fault of Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson...

Review, please! =3

Songs for this chapter: 'I Promise' (Simple Plan) and 'This Love' (G-Dragon and BIGBANG)

Peace.

Akiko


	12. Epilogue

The Science Of Seduction

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Epilogue

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John sighed like a man who'd had his first sip of water after walking through the desert for forty days. Or like a man who'd gone a week without his lover and had been subsequently unsexed for seven days. He wasn't sure which was worse, but he suspected that it was the lack of sex.

Plump lips smiled against his neck as Sherlock nipped at his pulse lightly. "I see you've missed me," he rumbled in that toe-curling voice of his.

"Ha. And you say you hate stating the obvious," John breathed, the 's' drawing itself out when Sherlock's sweat-slick skin slipped against his own. The taller man was sliding down, trailing sloppy kisses down John's quivering body. Teeth dragged across the doctor's hip, and he bucked and moaned as a warm tongue followed, soothing the bite teasingly.

One of the most delightful things John had discovered about Sherlock was how playful the man was in bed. He was far more open and warm in the confines of their bedroom than he ever was beyond it, although several people had remarked at an apparent change in Sherlock. They seemed to think he was gentler, less abrasive, but he was still Sherlock to John, so he supposed it didn't matter.

What did matter was the way Sherlock was blowing warm air over John's erection, something he knew John loved, and the way his fingers were stroking John at the crease where his legs and arse met. They were slick with lube, inching closer and closer to their destinating with every pass, and it was driving John mad. When Sherlock touched the tip of his tongue to the tip of John's erection, the doctor broke.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, please!"

Moaning, Sherlock took his entire length into his mouth in one long, smooth motion, slipping one finger into John at the same time. He teased John for what seemed like hours, until the smaller man was a writhing, gasping, babbling mess, before he took pity on him and slid back up until they were nose to nose. John liked it when Sherlock kissed him after a blowjob; they tasted wonderful together.

The first time they'd had sex had been two weeks after what Sherlock liked to call their first date, insisting that since they'd ended up taking their Chinese back to the flat and spending the evening watching reruns of QI, it wasn't really a date. When he'd explained this to John, the doctor had only rolled his eyes, promting Sherlock to pout.

"You didn't enjoy our date, John?"

"Sherlock, eating a candy bar at a crime scene does not count as a date."

"But...John, we _shared_ a candy bar at the crime scene."

Which was so pathetically sweet, John had agreed that that could be their first date (while secretly thinking that their first date had probably been at Angelo's, waiting for a serial killer and talking awkwardly about Sherlock's sexual preferences). After all, considering who they were, a crime scene probably was the perfect setting for their first date.

It had been a thrilling problem for Sherlock, and John had watched with the same awe and admiration that he always did as his brilliant boyfriend put together puzzle pieces the rest of them didn't even know existed. He made him eat, forced him to rest (which was much easier when he insisted that he wanted Sherlock with him when he slept), and when Sherlock had solved the case and had subsequently crashed, John had been there with open arms to catch him.

They'd made love that night, slowly and so sweetly John's heart had squeezed painfully. It had been gentle and curious and quiet, an extended exploration of each other, building on what they already new in beautiful ways. John remembered how it hadn't felt any different from holding Sherlock's hand or kissing him or arguing with him over coffee, but at the same time there had been a universe of difference. It was a new, exquisite facet of their relationship, but it was no more exquisite than any other facet of their relationship.

Since then, they'd learned new ways to explore - slow and torturous, fast and desperate, hot and playful - every time different, every time as incredible as the first.

This time was frenzied, teeth and tongues and a strange mix of dirty words and sweet nothings. A week had been seven days too long for both of them, and it was as though they were trying to fit seven days into twenty minutes.

Sherlock moved inside John at a breathtaking pace, filling him in ways John had never known he could be filled, tangling his long fingers in John's hair and fitting their bodies together easily. Needy, whimpering sounds were being pulled from John's throat with every stroke, and Sherlock caught them in his mouth, tasting John's tongue for more.

The ending was dazzling and shattering, like an electrical storm thundering within, and John clung to Sherlock possessively, murmuring against his jawline.

"Mine," he breathed, loving how it made Sherlock hold him tighter. "Mine, mine, God, mine. Always, always."

When they'd got their strength back enough to race each other to the shower, they spent as long as they could under the spray, touching and tasting and breathing each others until the water turned cold and they were forced to tumble back into bed together.

It was a miracle that they'd gotten here, honestly. Considering how emotionally dense Sherlock could be, and how dense in general John could be, most people were of the mind that they'd only managed to end up together through fate. John knew better of course, and it was a good thing Sherlock had explained the whole hostage plot over their Chinese, because otherwise John might have smothered him in his sleep.

It had been Mrs. Hudson, most likely inadvertantly, who had given Sherlock the idea. She had been talking about a soap opera she followed wherein one character proved his love to another by demonstrating that he was willing to submit to torture to save his beloved. This, apparently, was what had started Sherlock planning to suss out John's true feelings via a convoluted and unnecessary plot. John really hated soap operas.

The next player had been Lestrade, who had been even less in the loop than Mrs. Hudson, and had unwittingly agreed to supply Sherlock with all of the cold cases he currently had. The DI had assumed that Sherlock was bored. In reality, Sherlock was searching out the perfect 'villain' for his plot. John _really_ hated cold cases.

The third player had been Mycroft. Mycroft, who had know _exactly_ what Sherlock was planning, and had provided the location, the blocked phone, and the unfamiliar voice (an office aide with strep throat, John learned), who had advised Sherlock on what to say, who had watched this _entire messy affair_ unfold and had meddled just enough to make things as complicated for them as possible. John really, _really_ hated Mycroft.

He was tempted to send each of them a fruit basket. Or kill them. Even now, three months later, he was unable to decide. Perhaps a poisoned fruit basket would be appropriate - the best of both worlds.

Speaking of deciding...

"Buck-naked," John murmured, lips moving against Sherlock's curls as they cuddled (lay together for warmth, Sherlock would correct if he said it out loud), still feeling tingly and boneless. It seemed a bit odd, height-wise, that Sherlock should be the one tucked up against John's side with his head on John's shoulder, but they fit so nicely that way, John never said anything. Besides which, it made him feel taller.

He felt Sherlock stir, and the detective propped his chin on John's chest. "I beg your pardon?"

John smiled. "I was just thinking I liked you best buck-naked."

"I'm fairly certain the term is 'butt-naked'," Sherlock corrected sleepily, returning to his previous position.

"That sounds awkward, though. I've always heard it 'buck-naked'."

"John," his lover said in his 'talking-to-a-stubborn-fool' voice (which he used quite often around John), "I don't care if it's 'buck-naked', 'butt-naked', 'bare-naked', or whatever other sort of naked you name. So long as it's you and me, naked, together, who gives a good God damn what it's called?"

Laughing, John kissed Sherlock on the top of the head and closed his eyes. "I love you."

"..._obviously_."

:::

The End For Real!

:::

A/N - Eeee!

I can't believe it's over! *dies* Or _is_ it?

There are plans for a companion piece to this, which will be essentially the same story, only from Sherlock's POV. Anyone who wants the answers to such mysteries as 'What was Sherlock thinking when he dressed up as Hamlet?' or 'How did Sherlock feel when he was kissing John and John was pushing him away?' should let me know, because I still haven't decided if I actually want to write the danged thing. This one was torturous enough.

Anyway, there may or may not be a Christmas special in the works, so stay tuned, okay?

Review! Please! I neeeeeeeed iiiiiiiit!

Song for this chapter: 'Doot Da Doot' (The Unlovables)

Peace.

Akiko


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